


In the end they all got what they deserved

by Clementines



Category: Trainspotting (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-10-19 05:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10633323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clementines/pseuds/Clementines
Summary: Veronika has left with the money. Begbie is back in prison. Spud is a writer. Mark and Simon are stuck together, again.Life goes on in Leith.





	1. There is stuff we should talk about

**Author's Note:**

> My knowledge of Scottish is near to none, be kind.

It may very well be a Tuesday, Wednesday or Friday’s afternoon. Mark’s not sure, everyday feels the same in shite old Leith. They’re lounging on Simon’s sofa, feigning to watch telly while they ignore the skag lined up on the table. 

Mark looks at Simon who’s looking at Sean Connery on the screen. He can only wonder how many times a man can watch a film before utterly being unable to stand it. For fuck’s sake, Sean Connery must be 90 years old by now. One day he comes out and says it aloud. 

“It’s time you move the fuck on, ya cunt.” 

The only thing he receives is a deathly glare that seems to say “A may have forgiven you for taking my money twenty years ago, A may have forgiven you for screwing my girlfriend but not even our friendship can stand you bad mouthing Sean Connery’s Bond.” So he lets it go because it’s not like he has made so much progress in the last twenty years either, has he? Who the hell is he kidding? 

There are things they should talk about. They should decide how the hell they are going to give the EU their loean back, even see how stupid Brexit may affect the whole thing. They should talk about the fact that it’s been a whole month and Mark has not moved a single finger to find a place. Simon has not said a word about it, not even a snarky remark. They should aknowledge that, apparently, their fate is to fail together and not otherwise. But they dont. Because they’re Mark and Simon and they don’t have a single idea of how to talk about things. They may fight, drug themselves together, betray each other, have the occasional later ignored sex but talk, never. 

The truth is it scares Mark how easily they have fallen back into a routine. It scares him how easily they have fallen back together and how fucking much he had missed it.

Spud comes in that afternoon and Simon looks at him as he looks at everything but Mark, blasé. Spud keeps on babbling hapilly about how he has sent his stories to publishing houses all around the UK. He talks about how he’s getting more time with his son and has gotten closer to Gayle. He hasn’t taken skag since everything happened and Mark takes great care of always hiding his and Simon’s whenever Spud comes in. 

“A wanted to say thank ya for forgiving me.”

Spud looks sheepish as he says the words and Mark shrugs. 

“If someone deserves the money it’s ye.”  
“Of course ye would say that, am the one who’s always screwed up.”

Simon gets up and wanders off to take a glass of whisky while Mark rolls his eyes. 

“You’re just too slow mate.”

“Aye, that must be it. Remember how I was big bad Simon? In the end I’m the stupidest of us all. Going to the pab.”

“There’s no one in that fucking pab. Get your ass here”, yells Mark but Simon is already out by the time he finishes the sentence. 

Spud occupies the place Simon has left and looks at his old pal. 

“Am sorry.”

“Do not. He’s just mad ‘cause he never achieves betrayal before we do.”

“You’re staying here.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statment.

Mark shrugs. 

“A tried going back home. My dad told me I could stay but at forty-six it didn’t seem right.”

“Not going back to Amsterdam?”

“Have to but just to gather some things. There’s nothing there for me anymore.”

“I’m glad Simon has ya now.”

Mark looks at Spud for a long time, taking in his words.

“It was bad Mark, when ye left.”

“Stop exaggerating.”

“Am not. He may be bad at caring, like the lot of us, but the only people he cared about were you and Dawn and he lost both of you at almost the same time.”

Mark sighs and wonders for a bit how it had been like for Spud back then. He could imagine sweet Spud trying to reach out to Simon and being cruelly rejected. He has been trying, for twenty years, to convince himself that what he did to Simon had been the same as what he did to Begbie. But it had never worked, he very well knew it was not. 

“A think he really needs ya.”

He knows Simon does, in his own sick and twisted way, because so does he. The conversation is getting too deep for Mark who changes the subject. They start chatting about the pub and the loan. Spud suggests that maybe they should try and better it, make it more attractive in order to make money. Mark is slightly shocked at the fact that he’s proposing something tottally legal, and that it may even work. 

Simon does not come back home that night, or the next, or the one after that. The pub is closed and no one knows where the hell he went. Mark has keys so he and Spud try to renovate it a bit. They change the decoration and make it look good for yong people. Then they call the city’s best dealers and start getting out the word that there’s good gear in the pub. It’s risky and not the most moral option but they need 100 000 and they’re them, what were you expecting?


	2. Amsterdam is not the same anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark goes back to Amsterdam in order to sort ou some stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't remember if Mark's wife had a name in T2... Forgive me if she did.

“The past is never where you think you left it.”

― Katherine Anne Porter

It’s been two weeks and Simon hasn’t come back. Mark is starting to become worried, it was Simon after all, there was about a million people who he could have fucked up badly enough for them to seek revenge, counteless skams gone bad, maybe betrayed husbands… He’s tried calling a couple of times but to no avail. Spud ends up telling him Simon disappears regularly. He never says for how long or where he’s going, he just disappears. Fucking typical, Mark thinks. He doesn’t have any other way to reach his new flatmate anyway so he drops it, hoping Simon would come back in one piece although he wouldn’t mind if he gets a bone or two broken. The bastard certainly deserves it, he always does.

Mark has stuff of his own to solve. He knows he can’t keep on avoiding his past life forever. Funny, isn’t it? It seems like a hobby of his to avoid past lifes. He’s never been good at facing people or facts. He’s never been good at facing, period. He guesses that’s true for most of the people who end up addicted to skag, not been good at facing shit. But he can’t spend the next twenty years avoiding Amsterdam like he avoided Leith so he ends up booking a flight. He goes to his dad and lets him know he’s coming back this time, the reassurance is needed. He does the same with Spud and hands him the pub’s keys so he can continue with the renovation. He closes the door of the flat on a tuesday morning, hoping Simon will be there by the time he comes back.

He gets to Amsterdam before noon and can’t help but remember that first time, twenty years ago. He had felt freedom, tasted it even. Leith, the skag, the boys, Margaret Thatcher and her fucking of the country, Tommy’s downfall, Dawn’s death… Evertyhing had seemed far, far away. He could have moved to another continent and it wouldn’t have felt farther. He had descended from the plane with a smile on his face, a lot of pounds in his bag and confidence in a better future. He had chosen life, or so had he thought. Amsterdam had seemed incredibly brillant compared to old, shitty deindustrialized Leith; the city was full of people riding bycicles, full of sex, full of drugs, full of life. It had been the exact opposite of Leith, it had been like entering a christening after growing up in a funeral.

Today, nothing of that, or very little, remained. Today, upon leaving the plane, Amsterdam had seemed dull and deceiving. Mark thought that, in the end, cities were like people: watched from afar they could conserve all their glory, their brilliance and mistery but upon a closer look you could guess all the flaws, the decadence, the reality. He knew Amsterdam too well nowadays to believe in that old dream of the city of freedom. He knew very well there were young people struggling in Amsterdam’s streets as well as on Leith’s wasted bricks; he knew all of the misery that lied hidden in the red neighborhood; he knew skag -legal or not- was fucking up as many lives here as it was back there. Amsterdam was a better looking hell, but a hell nonetheless.

He decided to walk to his old house, trying to embrace the memories of the city and of a life he had lost. He remembered as he walked by important places in his life: the pub where he had met Ria, the woman he had married. What the hell was he thinking? Mark Renton married, he really had tried to choose life, the whole package: the job, the family, the fucking big television. The washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead the day you die. He had tried to get it all and had failed miserably, as always. It was his fate, a fate he had fought twenty years ago, a fate he was beginning to accept.

He waits patiently in front of the door. He doesn’t have they keys anymore, she took them away to make sure he wouldn’t come back. He wasn’t looking forward to see her, she was just a remainder of his biggest failure. He was tired of being reminded or failures. The door finally opens revealing his soon to be ex wife and he can’t help but notice the tiny baby bump which is starting to show. The fucking bitch. She could have had the decency to at least wait a couple of months. He wondered for a brief moment who the father was, some of their so called friends maybe? Fuck, Mark had always hated those friends. Just stupid wankers who looked at people like him like they were the scum of the Earth and maybe they were but at least they didn’t pretend otherwise. Mark had dressed smart, said the right things, hide the right amount of himself to get accepted into their little social circle, a circle he had craved. It had been boring as shit, he finally realizes, the last twenty years of his life had been boring as shit.

Ria puts a hand on her belly and looks downward, ashamed. Fucking right you should be ashamed you bitch, thinks Mark, but he doesn’t have the desire to fight. He doesn’t want to talk about his epic failure to procreate. Lazy spermatozoides the doctors had said. Of course even that part of him would be lazy! Ah boy, used to say his mother, all the things you could be if you weren’t so lazy! Damn right mom, damn right. He ignores this shit ‘cause it hurts too much. He didn’t even want to be a parent in the first place, he had tried just for her sake, just to give her the 2.5 kids and the white picket fence. He had tried. He had not been the perfect husband, by no means, but he had been a decent one: food on the table, a monthly salary -even if it was half her salary- and faithfulness but for the occasional and discreet betrayal she would never know about. She had those too. Everyone has, it’s part of the bargain. He had been decent enough so she would have waited for him to pick up his things before getting impregnated by another wanker. Oh, well, clock was tickling after all, her best years of fertility were well past her and it kind of had been his fault. He was clearly the one with the problem.

She lets him in and he starts to pick up his stuff in silence. It’s fucking scary how twenty years of your life can be put in a sport’s bag. He had thought that complying to society would allow him, if not happiness - Mark didn’t really believe in that-, peace of mind. It had not. It had just been boring. So fuking boring. It pains him to admit it but a few weeks in Leith had contained more life than years in Amsterdam. How fucking ironic. The brunches on sundays, the walks down the river, the family gatherings and the romantic dinners, the credits, the mortgage, the two weeks of hollydays per year… What a fucking joke. He closes the bag and turns around to take a longer look at Julia. She is a good looking woman: tall enough, slender body, short blond hair and clear blue eyes. She is a good looking woman and yet she seems so bland. Diane had been alluring, Ria had been calming: she had offered the stability Mark had craved. He had loved her, he had been in love with them both but now he was truly unable to find anything in Ria out of the ordinary, anything worth it, and he regretted it. He regretted it. Then it hits him how in the end she doesn’t even know him but that’s his fault, how would she? He had tried to erase twenty-six years of his life coming to Amsterdam, had tried to become someone totally new but that didn’t work. It couldn’t work. He would always be Rentboy. Always.

She hands him a letter before seeing him to the door, says it’s from his work. They both look at each other for a moment, knowing that this is goodbye. They will never see each other again. It’s funny how if there’s no kid in the middle there’s nothing left to tie two people together, not even twenty years. There was nothing left between him and Ria and yet there was everything left between himself and his mates. That much he had discovered going back to old Scotland. Life was weird like that. He wished her good luck with the baby, Mark has never been one for revenge, he was no Begbie. She wishes him good luck too, for whatever he may need it. A bunch of seconds later he’s in the street, taking a last glance at what has been his home for the last twenty years. House, he corrects himself mentally, it had never been a home but a house. He sighs and opens the letter, expecting a kick in the ass. He’s disappointed. His employer is offering him to stay. He says they could transform him into a valuable asset with a few courses, he says he deserves it, loyal worker and shit. The list of adjectives written down in the letter seems to describe an entirely different person: loyal, hard-working, energetic… Everything Mark was not. He was a wanker. A brilliant one, he knew, but a wanker nonetheless.

He considers it as he walks down the Amstel. It would be easy, wouldn’t it? He can keep his job, rent a new flat, find a new wife and buy the best computer because who the fuck needs a television nowadays? It would be so easy to accept, to let himself being dragged back into that socially accepted, boring and calm life but he keeps hearing Spud’s words into his ears: first comes the opportunity then the betrayal. First comes the opportunity then the betrayal. Mark takes a deep breath, looks into the horizon then shreds the letter to pieces before throwing it into the river. Destroy the opportunity and then there’s no betrayal, is it?

He stays a couple of days. He closes bank accounts, ends relationships, goes to his once favourite places. He simply watches as the time goes by, his speciality. He ends up going back to the airport and taking a flight home on his third day in Amsterdam. Home. The word keeps repeating itself in his head and he realizes he had not reffered to Leith at home in a long time, in forever time. He snorts then smiles. He’s never coming back to Amsterdam. There’s nothing left there. There’s no one left. He’s never coming back.

“It was his home now. But it could not be his home till he had gone from it and returned to it. Now he was the Prodigal Son.”

― G.K. Chesterton


	3. What are you looking for, Mark?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark has always had a lot of questions, still does. Never an answer though.

“I can't go on, I'll go on.” 

― Samuel Beckett, I Can't Go On, I'll Go On: A Samuel Beckett Reader

He gets off the plane and takes a deep breath. He’s home. It’s a shitty, ratty and failed home but it’s his nonetheless. He passes by his father’s, sitting down with the old man and talking about unsubstantial matters. It’s always been like that with him; there’s always been important stuff in his head, existential questions he’s never been able to put into words. The truth is Mark has always been a faithless man, a nihilistic. You don’t have to believe in religion, that’s one thing, but you do have to believe in something, anything. What else is there to do? What happens when you know there’s no hope before the game has even started? Mark, that’s what happens, but he can’t say any of that so he just sits at his dad’s table and sips at his coffee, avoiding to talk about the giant blank space sitting next to him and his dad. Presence is made of absences, he’s starting to grasp that. 

His dad is talking about Liverpool’s last game and saying how Klopp is going to put them back where they belong and Mark feigns to care. He doesn’t give a shit though, he very well knows that’s not possible. Liverpool could win a thousand leagues and yet the pleasure of a football unadultered by money would not come back. George Best could not be today, you cannot be in this word either dad, I barely exist in it myself. That’s what he wants to say but he wouldn’t be understood so he just nods and says they’re going to fuck Manchester up the ass this weekend. He watches his father carefully as he talks and wonders how life has been for him for the last twenty fucking years. His wife is dead, one of his kids is dead, the other is a wanker who never visitied, there’s no grandkids around and no more work to grab onto. God, thinks Mark, his father is the fucking image of despair and he suddenly finds he’s growing an admiration for the man. It’s a wonder he still wishes to breathe. 

He ends up promising to come watch the match with him and that seems to make him happy. It’s been a long time since Mark hasn’t make anyone happy. He picks up his suitcase and goes home. As soon as he enters he can smell Simon, it’s a unique smell really, a strange mixture of charisma, missed chances and skag. The bastard could have his own fragance. There’s a glass sitting by the sink, one Mark didn’t leave, that confirms his theory and he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Some part of him must have been scared by the possibility of Simon not returning. Mark sighs, he would never understand that relationship. Ever. It had started as wees, attracted to each other by some invisible force. Sure, there had been Spud and Begbie and others and the birds but they were the chore, the hard chore no one could come close to. What was that force driving them towards each other? What is that force keeping them together? Who the hell are they? Questions, always fucking questions in Mark’s skull and not the trace of an answer. He takes a quick shower, dresses as to forget he’s closer to fifty than to forty and goes down to the pub.

The pub is nothing like it used to be. Spud is been clearly underused by society, he’s proven to be able to assemble words on a paper and to be a surprisingly good decorator. Then it hits Mark, the same question that’s been hitting him since questions started to roll in: what would have happened if they had been born somewhere else in some other time? Who would sweet Spud have been? Who would Begbie had become had he embrassed his blatant homosexuality? If Simon had been born in LA he’d be a cinema star, that much he knows. As for him… He’s an other matter. He had the brains and the opportunity, he could have moved out of the terrible circle of addiction. Uni could have saved him. Mark Renton was a fatalist and he was beginning to understand that regardless of his circumstances he would always find his way back to failure and decadence. Someone had to lose at the game for others to win. 

He spots Simon behind the bar but Spud and Gayle are already onto him. 

-Mark Renton!

Gayle exclaims his name with something akin to joy and Mark sighs relieved. He’s not up for a fight about how he fucked up another one of his so called best mates. 

-Hey Gayle, how is it going?

Mark had always liked Gayle, she’s an all right lassie: pretty, smart enough, easy going and way more sensible than any of them. Plus, she had the good taste of picking Spud out of their whole lot. You have to hand her that. Spud stares at her adoringly as she talks and Mark can’t help but smile and be amazed at the fact that’s it been twenty years and he’s still in love with his wife as a teen would be. He’s never loved someone for twenty years, has he? It shouldn’t suprise him that Spud has turned out to be the fittest to life of them all, there’s something called emotional intelligence after all. 

They chat for awhile and Spud keeps talking about all the visions he has for the pub. He’s a new man, Spud. Money didn’t do that to you, Mark knew, so it must have been the writing. Apparently writing was more rewarding than running. An idea pops in Mark’s head and he knows the deal, he knows to stay clear of any idea that pops up in his head but he can’t resist temptation. He never could.

-Hey Spud, what do you say we become associates? 

And like that the new saint trinity is born. Don’t worry, he says, I’ll convince Simon. As if. It had always been the other way around, always been Simon convincing him of some stupid shit but even that prick would have to recognize the genius behind this idea. Gayle takes him aside at some point and starts fidgeting with her hands. 

-Spud told me about the, the…

She wants to say suicide but she can’t. Mark wonders why people have so many problems talking about death, it’s life that terrifies him the most. Death was like skag: peaceful, easy, pleasurable somehow and yet here was the human race, trying hopelessly to survive. 

-It was just good timing. 

-Yeah, that or destiny. 

Destiny. The notion Mark had tried to avoid his whole life and that seemed to follow him nonetheless. Was Gayle right? Was that destiny? He had left Amsterdam lost, feeling like he had nothing to grasp so he had turned back to his past. The only solid thing there was. Then he had found Spud just in time. Maybe it was destiny’s way to say that he did have a place in this world, back in Leith, a place he couldn’t escape. Yeah, maybe that had been life laughing at him, as it always had. 

Mark wants to say stuff to Gayle. He wants to tell her he’s sorry for leaving, sorry for giving Spud a money he knew he would throw into skag, sorry for being Spud’s friend in the first place. Begbie, after all, was a psychopath and Mark and Simon bad men but Spud, Spud was decent enough and maybe, with other friends… Maybe. Life is full of maybies, death not so much. In the end he settles to smile and he finds out he’s glad Veronika took off with the money if half of that money goes to Spud’s family. 

They end up leaving soon enough because Spud is an addict and this place is full of gear. Leaving seems like the only sensible thing to do, that’s probably why Mark doesn’t. He goes find one of the dealers and buys some skag. Once an addict, always an addict unless you’re Simon fucking Williamson in which case you can get off skag whenever you want and still, for reasons Mark can’t start to comprehend, chooses to use. The effects hit him soon enough and he finds himself dancing, surrounded by a younger crowd while Simon’s words keep repeating themselves in his head: “you’re just a tourist in your own youth”. Fucking bastard, had always to be right. 

He ends up against a wall, watching Simon and waiting for the night to slowly die out. Simon is surrounded by birds and that’s how Mark remembered him anyway. He was still able to pull, even lassies twenty years younger, they just kept falling at his feet if he tried a bit. It wasn’t surprising. Simon was still tall and slender, the clearest grey eyes you’ve ever seen and the mainliest traits you could wish for. He just oozed masculinity, the same masculinity Begbie had always tried to pull without success. It came naturally to Simon, he didn’t have to appear manly, he just was; he would have remained manly dressed in pink and tonguing two guys. Of course, time had went by: his hair line had notably receded and some silver was startng to show. He still could pull off the cheap bleached hair though, something that never ceased to amaze Mark. Simon was like those bottles of great champagne that had been kept for too long: not as good as they used to be but still despitefully superior to the mediocrity of the rest of their species. 

As a blonde who can’t be more than 25 licks the shell of Simon’s ear, it hits Mark that it has been some time now since Veronika left and he hasn’t even tried to pull in a bird. Maybe he should show some interest but the only thought of having to court someone bores him to tears. Fast sex was like fast food, it gets boring after a time. Deep down he doesn’t even know why he fucked Veronika anyway, was it because he liked her enough? Was it only because he didn’t have the balls to try with Diane? Or was it simply because she was Simon’s ? He doesn’t dwell on it and stays still, ignoring the redhead who’s been eyeing him for the last hour. Simon doesn’t comment on his lack of sex drive and, in exchange, Mark doesn’t comment on the fact that Simon never brings anyone home. He doesn’t comment on the fact that it never seems to go further than blowjobs in the bathroom with him and that Veronika had admitted to having fucked him just once. Simon flirts, smiles, kisses but there’s something lacking. It’s still one of the most sensual things he’s ever seen but not as delightfully light. Who cares? 

The night goes by and, as he predicted, Simon doesn’t keep prisoners. Mark waits until the last client is gone and approaches his best mate. He’s counting the money, good enough but still far from what they need to make on a nightly basis. The bleached blonde is the first to talk. 

-Ye came back.

There’s a hint of surprise in his voice and a surge of misplaced indignation arises in Mark. Why wouldn’t he come back? Well, says a little voice in the back of his mind, it wouldn’t be the first time you didn’t come back. 

-So did ya. 

And there it is, mistrust. Mistrust is everywhere between them. There’s no reproach but just the slight fear of the other never coming back. How can you be so close to a person you don’t trust and who doesn’t trust you? Mark wants to cry or to laugh or to do both but he chooses what he always ends up choosing: to do nothing at all. 

-Where did ye go?

-What are ya Mark, my ma? Am not asking you. 

Cunt. Always so secretive. The truth about Simon was he was an addict too, a control freak. He couldn’t stand to not control things and people and situations. Mark knows that’s what trully bothered him about him leaving with the money, that’s what trully bothers him about Veronika leaving with the money, that’s why he never shares details of his life. Lack of control. In fact, Mark suspects that it’s one of the reasons he uses skag, he likes to show to himself that he can use and stop using whenver he wants. It’s one of the rare things the cunt can control. 

-Let’s go home. 

They end up on the sofa, too tired to sleep. The telly is on, as always, and none of them gives a shit about what’s on, as always. 

-She’s pregnant. 

Mark hasn’t told anybody, hadn’t had the intention to and yet he vomits it as soon as he gets a moment with Simon. The blonde has always had that effect on him, his own verity serum.

-Who the fuck are ya talking about?  
-My wife you shite. Well, ex-wife.

-The one you couldn’t impregnate? 

Simon puffs on his cigarette as he enjoys the blow he has just delivered. There has always been a passive-aggressive relationship anyway. It’s who they are, take it or leave it. 

-That was fast.

-Ay, she’s always been fast.

-Does it bother you?

-A don’t care she’s pregnant, a care am not able to impregnate anyone. 

-Fatherhood is not for wankers like us, Renton. The world’s better off without your sperm transformed into a tiny human being. 

He’s right. Mark knows he’s right and still, deep down, it saddens them both how right he is. 

***

It takes one month to convince Simon, some begging too. Simon never lets the opportunity to feel superior pass by anyway. Spud gets the money, some ouf of Gayle, some out of his parents and Mark almost feels guilty. Almost. A small part of him, the stupidest part of him really, thinks this could somehow work. 

If they’re going to do this, they’re going to do it right so they go back to Diane. Simon protests, there certainly must be a less expensive lawyer in town and there is but Diane is the one Mark trusts so the three of them sit patiently, sign every paper they have to sign and by the end of a thursday morning they become co-owners of Simon’s aunt’s pub. Once they’re finished, Mark lingers while Spud, unable to take a hint, keeps talking to Diane excitedly about his writing. Simon is the one to finally drag him away with some excuse about the car not being parked right. He throws Mark a meaningful glance, a glance Mark is not sure to be able to decipher so he shakes it off and concentrates on Diane. 

Diane, as beautiful and confident as ever, sighs then sits down again. She’s smiling at him like you smile at someone who has, at some point, meant the world to you and who still means something, whatever that something is. 

-What are you doing here, Mark? 

-Well, as you see, me and my pals just became associates.

-Yes, I know that. I also know I’m not the most affordable lawyer in the city. 

Mark snorts. Simon and Diane had never gotten along well. Diane had always contemplated Simon as some sort of bad influence on Mark, he was the person who was holding him back. Simon had always contemplated Diane as a threat, someone who was trying to pull Mark away. It’s almost funny how alike they are: attractive, bold, apparently essential to Mark Renton’s life. Simon would have been a hell of a lawyer, he’s sure of it. 

-You’re the one I trust. 

-What are you looking for Mark? 

Good question. What are you looking for, Mark? Twenty years and the question remained unanswered. 

-That’s what I thought. I know why you left. I’m not sure why you came back. I don’t know what you are looking for. Why don’t you come back once you know and tell me? 

She’s leaving an open door and Mark almost shakes because it’s diabolical. She knows he can’t answer. He’s never been able to because the truth is there’s nothing to look for. Nothing, that’s the answer. It’s always been the answer and she’s sitting there, so bussiness like, and he’s feeling so small. She intimidates him, always has because even back then, when she was a fucking school girl, she already knew what she wanted out of life and she still does but that’s not what amazes Mark, what amazes Mark is that she wants something out of life at all. 

***   
It’s late by the time he goes home. Simon is in the middle of the kitchen, zipping up his bag.

-So, got back to your teenage love? 

-She’s too good for me.

Simon nods, concentrated on his wallet. 

-Yes, she is. At first I thought that was the reason why you didn’t try but it wasn’t, was it?

Diane and Simon, fucking soulmates who ignore it. Why do they always know something about him he doesn’t seem to know himself?

-It wasn’t?

Simon smirks and refuses to answer, the cunt.

-I’m leaving for a few days. 

-Again?

-What the fuck, Mark? Do a need to give ya ma timetable?

-Timetables are for important people, ya cunt. 

Simon shakes his head and for a momento Mark catches a glimpse of that twenty something people would have died for. It’s fresh, light and playful. Playfulness, that’s what was lacking. It’s the most magnetic thing Mark has ever witnessed. 

-Am out. Have fun cunt! Don’t get too caught up in skag while’m gone. 

Sometimes Mark is reminded Simon cares, even slightly. He’s bored and curious and doesn’t want to find the answer to Diane’s question so, carefully, he decides to follow Simon. Where the fuck does that wanker disappear to so often? Well, he’s about to find about. 

“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.” 

― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath


	4. Inside Begbie's cell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's pay a visit to dear old Begbie, shall we?

“Envy, after all, comes from wanting something that isn't yours. But grief comes from losing something you've already had.”   
― Jodi Picoult, Perfect Match

The cell is as grey and cold as he remembered it. Twenty years he had lived for vengeance and nothing else. For twenty years the image of Mark Renton had haunted his mind and gave him a reason to live. Can there be any reason stronger to live than the desire to kill? It was only fair. Mark had to pay as he had. He had spent all of his fucking best years in a prison, he couldn’t be the only one to pay a price. It wasn’t that he disliked Mark. It wasn’t about such nonsense as hate. It was about justice. Eye for eye. You get what you give. It was Frank Begbie’s reason to not cut himself open with a plastic fork in the middle of lunch. 

He had savoured it. Mark hanging in the air, unable to escape this time. He had felt life leaving his tired body, he had felt tenderness towards him, had wanted to accompany him during those last seconds, his arms around his legs giving him some kind of solace, helping him to reach the other end peacefully because it wasn’t about hate. Frank Begbie had never hated Mark Renton. In fact, he had always been his favourite. Spud was too dumb and Simon not enough of an addict but Mark was the perfect balance between smart and lazy, too lazy to oppose himself in any way to Frank’s power. Mark Renton had been the chosen one, the chosen to be Franco’s bestfriend. 

The morning they had woken up and found out Mark had left, he had almost blown everything up. Spud had sat in a corner, holding his legs to his chest shaking like a little girl while Simon had just stared through the window in complete silence, lost somewhere very far away. Frank had lost it. He had smashed everything in the room while yelling like crazy. No one does that to Frank, no one, specially not Mark Renton. “My fucking bestfriend!”, he had said, “my fucking bestfriend!”. Then, in the middle of his rage, Spud’s little voice had come out of the corner. “You’re not his bestfriend, Simon is.” Simon had snorted from his spot next to the window while Frank had almost smashed poor Spud with a lamp. 

Well, in the end Renton had fucked both of them the same so, who cared? He did. He cared. He knew there was a connection when it came to him and Mark. To Spud and Simon he was just a nuisance, someone to be scared of, but Mark saw more. He was the only one who did so he needed to pay ‘cause you don’t get to fuck your mates up the ass and not pay. You don’t get to see more in someone than the rest of the world does, betray them then no fucking pay. You just don’t. So he had escaped, one obsession inhabitating his every thought. Then Simon, good old narcissistic amoral Simon, had made him hope. Mark was out there, he could get him and he almost had but stupid Mark Renton had seven lives, didn’t he? 

Of course Simon would save him. Of course Spud would be right. “You’re not his bestfriend, Simon is.” Twenty years thinking about vengeance then he goes cold feet, of course he would. Franco should have known better than to trust fucking Simon David Williamson. He should have known better than to trust a guy who still bleaches his hair at forty. People who bleach their hair are not reliable. Then he was going to kill both of them, together. They could die next to each other, it was fitting for two fucking bestfriends. Then Spud had finished him, sweet dumb Spud, the one no one thinks of. That’s how he had ended up back in that grey and cold cell. 

Spud was better, that much he could accept. It was only fair that he had more luck at life than the lot of them. He had a wife who loved him and a kid who didn’t hate him, a kid he didn’t have to leave because his world would be better without him. He could live with it, but Mark and Simon? Awful people. Truly awful. The scum of the Earth, more than him even. At least he had excuses. At least he was traumatized enough in his childhood to justify his inner evil. Everything about Frank Begbie was about rage, about stuff pulling deep in his stomach making it impossible for him to think. It was violence spurting out of him in waves he couldn’t control but Mark and Simon were calm and cold. They were the kind of person who thought things trhough. They knew what they were doing when they kept inflicting pain upon others. No excuses for them and yet, yet they had each other. 

Why? It was not fair. If Mark and Simon could have each other, then why the hell couldn’t Franco have someone as well? Why didn’t he have a bestfriend? Why didn’t he have someone to betray, someone who would still save his sorry ass after betraying him? If someone was about to kill Franco, no one would intervene. Not even Mark Renton. Specially not Mark Renton. He would probably be the one holding the gun. Because the truth was, he had never been more than a bully to Mark. There had never been a special connection between them. It had always been one-sided. He wasn’t sweet Spud who had to be protected or charismatic Simon who had to be loved. He was just violent Franco, the nuisance, and he had no one. 

He could live with that. It was probably also fair but if he had no one, neither would Mark Renton. If he couldn’t kill him, fine, he could do worse. He could make him as alone as he was himself. Alone and miserable, no one to save him in time. Yeah, thinks Begbie as he watches the grey wall, he could do better than to kill Mark Renton. He could kill Simon Williamson. He would take away the one person that took Mark Renton exactly as he was. After all, it was only fair. That night he goes to bed a smile on his face, his new obsession filling his dreams. 

 

“Stronger than lover's love is lover's hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.”   
― Euripides, Medea


	5. Back To School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark finds out the place Simon disappears to.

“Children are gifts. They are not ours for the breaking. They are ours for the making.”   
― Dan Pearce, Single Dad Laughing

 

Mark is expecting a scam. He’s expecting prostitutes, drug dealers, criminals of every kind and an endless queue of one night stands in front of the hostel’s door. What else can you expect when following Simon? That’s why Mark can’t wrap his head around the fact that he ends up at a primary school in London watching Simon watching the kids during recess. At first he thinks his friend has lost it. What the hell? Were they selling drugs to ten years old now? Well, a little voice on the back of Mark’s mind whisper, you weren’t that much older when you started. Yeah, and look at where it got us is what he wants to answer. 

It takes him a while to figure out that Simon is not there watching kids but a kid in particular. He’s standing next to his car, focusing his attention on a little wee. Blonde, grey eyes, very straight nose, pouty lips and impossibly pale, the kid can’t be older than eight and he can’t be anyone else’s kid in the world either. Simon’s genes are written all over him and Mark finds himself travelling forty years back in time. He remembers how he and Simon had been attracted to each other like magnets since the very beginning. He, the shy kid, pivoting naturally towards the outspoken and magnetic blonde. The same confidence oozes from this kid who’s running and laughing while he order everyone else around but he does it with a smile and a charming wink so everyone else is happy to oblige. He’s a little leader already, it runs through his tiny veins after all. Then a strange thought strikes Mark: if he runs trough Simon’s veins and Simon runs through this kid’s veins, well, he kinds of run there too. 

Simon is looking peacefully, a tender expression of his face. The moment is so rare that Mark has to take a photo of it, as discreetly as he can. He hasn’t seen peace etched in Simon’s features since he came back. Scratch that, he hasn’t seen peace etched in Simon’s features since they let baby Dawn die. It’s almost a religious experience watching him at the moment: eyes focused and shiny, lips tilted up into a slight smile, arms by the sides of the body, not a care in the world but the little wee a few feet away from him. Mark’s feeling things he didn’t even know existed. Simon repeats the same routine for five days straight and Mark follows without ever being noticed. He’s always been a sneaky bastard. On the last day Simon gets into a big fight with a woman Mark assumes is the wee’s mother. She is beautiful, there’s no other word for it. She isn’t charming or attractive but truly beautiful. Tall, slender, a blue eyed brunette clad into designer’s clothes, high heels and wearing impeccable makeup. She’s the poshest thing Mark has ever seen. The discussion gets heated and Simon ends up leaving while he cusses. The whole scene hurts Mark because Simon is trying and the woman won’t let him see the wee. Sure, it’s Simon but, if he’s coming to a primary school regularly to watch his kid risking being confused with a pederast, he’s really trying. 

***

Simon leaves that day and Mark manages to get home before he does. He disorders the place a bit so it seems he’s been there the whole week and starts cooking some shit in the microwave. That’s when Simon comes in, spotting a poker face Mark knew too well. 

-Hey Rents. How ‘ya doing?

-Good, what about ye? Fund what ye’re looking for? 

Simon shrugs and sits at the table, eagerly stealing Mark’s dinner. Renton rolls his eyes and tries to make small talk. 

-Gayle called, she said there’s a flat to rent next to her’s. It’s not like it’s great or anything but I could afford. 

Simon stops chewing and looks at Mark, almost offended.

-And why the fuck would ya need a place? Don’t ya live here already? 

Mark guesses that’s the moment he officially moves in with Simon because he doesn’t correct him. He wasn’t moving anyway. 

They eat in silence for awhile but Mark can decipher the lingering sadness in Simon’s eyes and he can’t take it anymore. 

-I followed you. 

Simon drops the fork and looks Mark straight into his eyes.

-What do ye mean ye followed me?

-You wouldn’t say where you went so I followed you. I was in London with you, I watched your kid with you.

Mark thinks he’s going to get beaten. Again. Thankfully there’s no billiard this time.

-Are ya fucking kidding me? Who the fuck do ye think ye are? 

-I wouldn’t have guessed. 

Simon chuckles cruelly and Mark learns that sounds can hurt. 

-Of course you wouldn’t. You assumed I didn’t try. When I told you I had a kid I almost never saw you assumed i didn’t try. 

-That’s not…

-Why the fuck would Simon, the one who let his daughter die because he was a fucking junkie, care?

-Simon, stop. 

-Nah, that’s what you thought and it’s fine, Mark. It’s what everybody would think, but I tried. I wasn’t the perfect boyfriend or father, by no means, but i fucking tried. 

We all tried Si, is what Mark really wants to say but that would only confront them to their cyclic failures so he doesn’t say it. What for? 

-The woman you fought with is the mother, right?

-Yeah. 

-A very beautiful woman.

Simon snorts. 

-Yeah, as beautiful as she’s a bitch. 

-What’s the story?

-Nothing original, sadly. Very posh and very bored girl meets dashing junkie. I was the perfect tool to rebel. She left when the money ran out.

-There’s things you can do, ya’ know? She cant keep ya from your kid.

-Of for fuck’s sake, Mark. I’m a notorious scammer and junkie, no judge in their right mind would help me out. 

-We can find a way. 

Simon shakes his head as he gets up and walks towards the sink.  
-He’s better of without me, Rents. He’s luckiest than me in fact, he doesn’t have to put up with the loser of his father. I had to put up with mine. 

Images of Simon’s pretty young face swollen and bruised comes to Mark’s mind and he feels sick all of a sudden. Images of cigarette’s burns on Simon’s teenage body comes to Mark’s mind and he wants to vomit. He didn’t even know he kept those images somewhere inside him. 

-Don’t do that.

-Do what?

-Comparing yourself to your father. You may be a shitty person Si, but you’re not your father. Never has been, never will. 

-Aye, I’m still me though. 

Mark is clenching his fists under the table and suddenly he knows it’s now or never. 

-It wasn’t the same, you know?  
-Huh?

-When I left with the money I pretended it was the same thing to leave Begbie than to leave you. Equal betrayals. Bullshit. You were my best mate and it wasn’t the same. I just want you to know I know.”

Mark hopes Simon is getting everything he’s saying without mouthing the words because he doesn’t have a fucking clue on how to say it otherwise. Simon stares at him for a moment then smiles. 

-It’s funny, ya know? Everybody always thought you were the one dependent on me when, in fact, I was the one following you around like a puppy all along. Thanks for acknowledging the fact, Mark. I appreciate it.”

The honesty and the vulnerability in Sick Boy’s eyes is so fucking raw Mark can barely handle it. If the blonde’s hand lingers a bit too much on Mark’s neck when he says good night, none of them protest. 

***

It seems Mark has a tendency to live life going in circles, that’s the only way he can explain ending up at Diane’s again. This time he doesn’t go to her bureau but to her place. They had always been platonic soulmates after all, had they not? 

She lets him in with a smile and he gets exactly what he expected. The house is warm enough to show that someone lives in but tidy enough to show that the inhabitant doesn’t spend a lot of her time in there. She is a successful lawyer after all. Photos of Diane’s friends and trips over the years hang on the walls and Mark’s chest almost bursts with pride. She so made it. 

-So, do you know what you’re looking for?

-Haven’t found out that one yet ‘am afraid. 

-What a pity. What are you here for then?

-I need your legal expertise. 

Diane sighs and rolls her eyes while she tucks her legs underneath her. At the moment she seems so young again Mark almost believes he’s twenty something. 

-What’s the scam this time?

-No scam. Did you know Simon has a son?

Diane nods and Mark has to remind himself he’s the one who left. 

-Of course you do. Well, he’s eight years old and lives in London with his mother. She won’t let Simon come near the kid. 

-Can’t say I really blame him. 

That’s enough to set Mark on fire. 

-You don’t know shite. 

They both look at each other surprised because Mark admires Diane, she’s the person he admires the most in the world, and she knows it so the outburst startles them both.

-Look, I know Simon is not the best father figure you can get but he’s trying, okay? Not all of us were lucky enough to grow into a loving family and with a future full of opportunities. He’s a shitty person, I know, but he cares and that has to count for something, right?

Mark can see on Diane’s face he’s getting trough to her. 

-I’m not saying the boy should move to Leith, I’m just saying Simon deserves to see him once in a while. It seems fair, don’t ya think?

Diane is looking at him as if he was a puzzle too easy to solve. 

-What?

-What, what? 

-You’re looking at me in a weird way. 

Diane shakes her head and smiles tenderly. 

-I was just thinking that since you came back you’ve come to me for advice three times and the three times have been about Sickboy. 

“You love me. Real or not real?"  
I tell him, "Real.”   
Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are super mega welcome! :)


	6. Sickboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As I said, Sickboy...

“Fashion is a language that creates itself in clothes to interpret reality.”   
― Karl Lagerfeld

He’s been doing his roots for half an hour now, hopelessly trying to make disappear the black hair of his Italian roots. He’s been doing since he was thirteen. Nobody has ever asked him why he started. It all happened when a friend of his dad came home one afternoon and told him how much he looked like his dad. You couldn’t have told him anything worse, ever. That night he couldn’t sleep so he stayed awake in front of the TV. He saw some bleached star long forgotten now and thought, why not? Identity es malleable. It’s something you create. The day afterwards he bought some shit. His hair was orange for months before he achieved the right shade of blonde but no one remembers that. No one remembers the process but always the result, the world is shallow like that. That day, hot day in the middle of August, Simon had been pushed aside in benefit of Sickboy. 

He drops the tint brush into the bowl and stares at the mirror. He’s spent an awful amount of time in front of his mirror during his life. He doesn’t like so much what he sees anymore; there’s that receding hairline that’s been bothering him for years, at first he had tried to comb his hair to hide it but he had looked like a fucking roman emperor, too Italian for his taste; then there’s the little wrinkles at the end of his eyes. He knows he’s still good looking though. He’s getting old. He’s getting tired of creating this alternative version of himself. He knows women still want him, so do men. He can see it in their eyes during the nights the wanders out or in the fugitive glances he gets in the daylight. Seduction is a skill. Some people, very ignorant people, believe it to be just a physical questions. Being beautiful is easy, a matter of symmetry, a fucking genetic lottery but charm is something else entirely. Seduction is an art you master, it’s about showing others what they’d like to be. It’s about confidence. It’s all about image.   
He can still remember the shit he used to get from Mark when they were younger about his lack of moral fiber. Was he to blame though? Yes, he was a superficial cunt, egocentric like no one else and he didn’t give a shit about hurting others. He did not do feelings, so what? He’s always been a materialistic boy in a materialistic world. He understood what the world was about soon enough: facts didn’t matter, they were too boring, they demanded an effort and people weren’t willing to put in the effort anymore. Images were easier, deceptive, anesthetic, pleasant. In fact, images were just like heroin: addictive. Nobody cared he was a junkie/scammer when he was dressed smart and looking good. The positive thing about images is that if you give people a good enough one, no one bothers you to scratch beyond the surface. If you give people Sickboy, there’s no need to get to know Simon. If you give people cool Sickboy, then no one thinks how hard Simon tries. A fucking relief is you ask him.

-Hello! Sickboy! Are you there?   
-A fucking moment!

He rinses his hair quickly, applies his creams because someone has to keep up with the fucking image and heads for the living-room. in the middle of it stands Diane, Rent’s favorite lawyer, and he can’t think of a valid reason why she’s here without him.

-Sorry if I intrude but it was open. 

Fucking Renton, never closes the door. 

-Mark’s not here.  
-I know that, i’m not here for him but for you. 

Simon frowns. Diane and him had never been friends, they’d probably been too busy competing for Mark’s attention back in the day. 

-Pardon me?

Diane sits on the couch as if she owns the place and, for a moment, he can recognize the predatory confidence he usually wears so well. 

-Mark told me about your offspring. He came to me asking for help. 

Then Simon starts laughing because, what else can he do? The fucker! For someone who had disappeared for twenty years without an ounce of remorse, he seemed to care a bit too much. 

-Look, I don’t know what that cunt told you but he’s wasted your time.

-He’s told me you’re an awful person, nothing I didn’t know already but he’s also said you were trying. He said you care. 

Simon sighs and sits in front of her, he was feeling so tired lately. 

-What does it matter? We both know he’s better of without me. 

Diane smiles and nods.  
-I certainly agree with that fact but Mark seems to think otherwise and I still appear to take into account what he thinks. 

-No judge is gonna help me.

-That depends. Are you clean? 

-I can be.

-You also have a business with partners now.

-Aye, and a life time of drugs and scams.

-You’re smart enough to not have a record.

-Look, can I be honest with you? Real honest, no bullshit. 

Diane nods because even she knows it’s a rare moment, a luxury Simon doesn’t allow himself often.

-Twenty years ago I had a daughter and I let her die because I was a fucking addict. I know you judge me for that, as does everyone else, and believe when I tell you I resent myself for it every fucking single day. 

Diane is listening more carefully now, convinced this is not one of Sickboy’s famous stunts. 

-I care for that kid, I do. He’s my kid and I’d love to see him more but I also know I’m a shitty person. I’m not a good influence. What the fuck could he learn from me? How to use? How to lie? How to blackmail? How to not care? Nothing worth knowing really. His mother is a bitch but she loves him and he has a good life: big house, private school, money to go the college he wants and to play polo on Sundays. 

-I thought the lot of you were inconformists despising the system. That sounds very system like, don’t you think? Choose life and all that crap.

Simon can see why Rents has always been so smitten with her.

-That’s what the people who are excluded of the system tell themselves to go to sleep at night. As for Mark, I believe he thinks he has some kind of redemption to achieve. I seem to be his charity case of the moment. Do not mind him. 

Diane gets up and walks to the door. 

-I think he just cares about you. I also think he’s right about this. A father ready to stay out from his kid’s life because he thinks he’s better off without him is good enough in my books. I’ll handle the case if you wish to go further, probono of course. 

He goes back to the bathroom and stares at the mirror some more. 

 

***

-I’m getting published!

Mark is doing some shit in the pub when Spud comes in running, a manuscript in his hand and a triumphant grin on his face. Mark can’t fucking believe it.

-Published?

-Yes mate. We’re going to be famous. Our stories will be out there. 

That’s when Mark realizes they are the protagonists of Spud’s book and the only thing he can think of is how wrong that is.

-Wow, congratulations mate. You’re a writer, Spud.

And it hits Spud for the first time that he’s no longer just a junkie or a recovering addict but a writer. His kid will be finally able to talk about his dad’s job at school instead of feigning to be an orphan. 

-Oh, before I forget, here. 

He hands Mark a letter.

-What’s this?

-It’s from Veronika. She wrote me and asked to give this to you. 

Life never gets boring around here, thinks Mark. Simon bursts in a moment later and Mark hurries to hide the letter inside his back pocket. The blonde seems awfully mad but Spud is clinging to him like a boa constrictor before he can do anything about it.

-I’m a writer Si!

Simon looks at Mark with incredulity all over his face. Mark shrugs and keeps on cleaning glasses. Simon hugs Spud reluctantly and congratulates him. Mark keeps thinking how it is possible that Spud achieved way more than them in life and the answer sees obvious: he’s a good lad. Maybe there’s something like karma after all. They celebrate it until late and, for a moment, Mark feels they’re three old pals again, just enjoying each other’s company. 

***

On their walk home that night, Simon breaks the usual welcome silence.

-Don’t do that ever again, Rents. I mean it.  
-What are you talking about?  
-I’m talking about going to a stranger to vent my problems and find a solution to something I don’t want solved.

He should have known Diane would do something like that. 

-I’m not going to apologize for that.  
-Fuck off.   
Then they keep on walking in silence until they reach their house. The first thing Simon does once he comes in is to throw away of all their gear.

-Are you nuts?  
-If I want to have a chance to see my kid from time to time, I need to be clean.

Mark can’t help the smile that comes to his face. At the same moment his phone buzzes. It’s a text message from Diane.

“You were right. You must see what the rest of us can't.”

He does, thinks Mark, he does see better. He knows the Simon under the sickboy. 

Once the house is free of gear, Simon sits down on the couch next to him. The telly, as always, is on and, as always, no one gives a damn. 

-Do you believe it?  
-Believe what?  
-What you said to Diane about me.  
-That you’re an awful human being? Yes, sure I do.  
-Thanks Rents but I was talking about the other part.  
-Aye, that too. 

Simon smiles discreetly while Mark feigns this is like any other conversation they’ve ever had.   
-Thank you, Mark.  
-You’re welcome, Si.   
-His name is Sean.   
-Of course it is.   
-We're going to be famous.  
-I know. Fucking ridiculous, isn't it? 

They share a laugh over their sudden and unexpected fame. The rest of the night is spent in a comfortable silence and no one says nothing when they end up falling asleep on the couch, Simon’s head on Mark’s chest and legs intertwined together. They both sleep peacefully that night, resting in the arms of the only person who takes them exactly as they are. It’s not about image with them, it’s about ugly reality. 

“If you don't know who you truly are, you'll never know what you really want.”   
― Roy T. Bennett

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are super welcome :)


	7. That's what I thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are changing, aren't they?

Everyone is effed up, Dalton. At some point, you just have to find someone to share the baggage with.

\---Dawson Fur Hire.  
― T. S. Joyce

Christmas is approaching fast enough and Spud has taken Gayle and their son on vacation. Mark can’t shake the image off: Spud clad in a stupid Christmas’ sweater with Gayle giggling excitedly while their offspring, as any good pre teenager, feigns to be dying of shame. Mark can see through his bullshit though, there’s happiness with a hint of a precaution and the boy’s eyes. Too good to be true, he must think, too normal to be us. Spud has come by the pub to give some instructions and Mark indulges him, making it seem that those instructions are vital. What would they do without him? Exactly the same, thinks Mark, but Spud’s family doesn’t need to know that. They end up getting on a mini van ready to take on their Christmas’ adventure while Mark shakes his head. That’s the life he had tried to pursue while living in Amsterdam and now he could see it would have never suited him anyway. 

Simon is at a reunion with Diane, Sean’s mother and her attorney so he goes to the pub and takes the time to do some cleaning when something falls from his jean’s back pocket. Mark’s eyes fall upon Veronika’s letter, a letter he had almost forgot. He picks it up from the floor slowly, carefully even, and wonders if he really wants to read it. He had wanted to betray Simon who had wanted to betray him and, in the end, Veronika had betrayed them both. She had taken the money and left to give her child a better life, Mark couldn’t find it in him to blame her. He had accepted the outcome of the whole situation knowing, deep down, it was the fairest, but there was nothing else to say. Veronika would never cross paths with him again and he was fine with it, so why writing a letter? Moreover, why reading it? There was no reason to but, of course, curiosity killed the cat. At least, it had killed Mark time and time again. That day would not be an exception.

He opens the enveloppe and the letter comes out. Anyone would know straight away it’s a girl’s letter: the handwriting is neat and tidy, ornated just enough to look elegant without being girly. There’s perfume on it and Mark has to smile because, really, he should have expected it. He wonders briefly if the way one writes is a reflection of the way one thinks. It would make sense. His handwriting was messy and chaotic while Simon’s was tall and slightly inclined to wards the right. Begbie’s handwriting had always been impossible to decipher and therefore scary while Spud, well, Spud’s handwriting could be anyone’s. Deciding to explore his new theory later, Mark starts reading mentally. 

“Dear Mark,

I guess I should begin with an apology but that would be hypocrite since I’m not really sorry for what I did. It was nothing personal, I assure you, just a matter of money. Plus, I’m sure you two will find the way to repay the EU, you’re survivors after all.

There was an opportunity then a betrayal. I thought about leaving with Simon and I thought about living with you but, in the end, I decided I was better off alone. I came back home to my kid. I found a decent job as a secretary, it’s not very exciting but at least I don’t have to fuck old guys with a strap on. I also found a decent boyfriend, not my dream guy but I’m guessing he’s good father material. 

I don’t know it it will be of any consolation, but I’d like you to know the money will be well spent on giving a real shot at life to my child, at least a better one than I had. As for Spud, his family has already received his part. Please, do not be hard on him. He tried to resist but, when I want, I’m irresistible. 

I don’t know why I’m writing this letter. I guess I felt like I need some kind of closure. I may have betrayed you and Simon but I’d like you to know I care about both of you. You of all people should know that caring and betraying are totally compatible. 

I also have to confess I believe I made you two a favour. By betraying you both, I took from you the opportunity to betray each other. You may not realize it yet but I know, at some point, you’ll be able to appreciate that fact. You’re both smart men after all. Do not waste the chance. 

I’d tell you I’ll write often but we both know it would be a lie. There’s no reason for us to talk to each other ever again so I guess this is goodbye. Take care of Spud, you know what money can do to a person. Take care of Simon, he’s not very good at being alone, at least not as good as he claims to be.As for you, you’ve spent so much time looking for answers around… Maybe you should try inside. 

I hope the next twenty years are amazing. 

Love,

Veronika.”

Mark looks at the letter a couple of times before folding it carefully and putting it back inside his jean’s pocket. He’s almost drowning in his thoughts when his phone buzzes. It’s a text message from Diane. 

“Any experience with eight years old?” 

Then Mark smiles and thinks that their reality is not that different from Veronika’s after all, just poorer. 

***

The three of them are home with beers and cigarettes scattered around. They’ve been celebrating even though Simon is shitting his pants. What the hell was he going to tell that kid? 

The wee’s mother, Erika, had admitted to the kid seeing his father once a month. It wasn’t much but, if it went well, she had promised it could turn into twice a month and so on. She had not been happy about it but Diane had made it very clearky law was on her side and she never lost when law was on her side. Erika’s attorney had wisely advised his client to try and be civil. Mark could only imagine the scene, Diane could be the scariest person in the world if you were standing between herself and what she wanted at the moment. The best option was obviously to step aside and let her get it. 

Soon enough it was past midnight and Diane was up, talking about an early morning. Mark got up drowsily to show her to the door. It’s not like the place was big and she could get herself lost but still, it seemed like the right thing to do. Simon, on the other hand, waves with his hand while he stares into space, probably weighing the fact that from now on he was to be a father, a real one, and he didn’t know where the hell to start. Diane opened the door and Mark followed her into the chilly night. Spud may have been right, it may be time to take out the stupid Christmas’ sweater. 

-I don’t know how to thank you for this. 

Diane smiles at Mark, puff on her cigarette, and grasp his shirt with her hands.

-You could come home with me.

Mark’s brain is slow registering those words and their meaning. Go home with her. It’s like a dream come true. It’s the thing Mark has been dreaming of since he came back without daring to hope it would come true. He should be running towards her house, he should be jumping of excitement on the spot and yet he’s not. Why the hell is he not? Then it hits him that Simon is inside, musing about the fact that he has a child now, a real one, and he has the stupid feeling he needs to be with him. Mark doesn’t know where it comes from but it’s there, pulling at the pit of his stomach and his brain does the thing it always does when face with the impossible: it shuts down. He just freezes on the spot, Diane’s hands on his shirt and the cold wind of early December hitting his nostrils. A beautiful woman he has loved, admires, respects and certainly desires if offering to take him home for the night and he’s thinking about Simon. Maybe he’s been wrong all along, maybe he should have never left Amsterdam, maybe Veronika should have let them betray each other. He’s lucky enough the woman in front of him is Diane so she can put it ouf of his misery without him trying to make sense of what’s happening. 

-That’s what I thought. 

As she’s uttering the words, a hint of regret in her doe eyes and a little smile tugging at her lips, a car stops in front of the house and Diane’s phone buzzes. Mark understands once he sees the handsome man in the driver’s seat. He’s been masterfully played and yet there’s a bit of deception in Diane, he can feel it. There’s something resembling pride, too. She’s still smarter than him, she’s still smarter than them all, she’s still a fucking queen. If ABBA had met her, they would have made a song about her. They both smile at each other and part ways, promising to keep in touch. Once he goes back inside, he realizes nothing will ever be the same because his whole word has been turned upside down and so has Simon’s and they’re both sharing a world now anyway. 

-That took you long enough.

Mark shrugs, unable to do anything else but to stare at Simon.

-What the hell have I done, Mark?

Simon’s voice is slightly slurred because of the vodka and Mark’s mind is slightly numbed because of the tequila. It suddenly strikes him how unfit they both are to have contact with a kid, even if it is just once a month. They would be able not to let him die this time around but that is probably as far as their skills could go. 

-I dunno. We’ll figure something out. We always do. 

Simon pouts and something gets lighted up inside Mark. It’s probably smoking, drinking,Veronika’s letter and Diane’s stunt at the same time. It’s probably the fact that he’s been sharing this small space with Simon for months now. It’s probably that he is finally admitting to himself how much he has missed the bastard. Mark can’t count the number of times in the last twenty years where he has thought “Fuck, Simon would enjoy this. Simon would hate it. Simon would have punched him. Simon would have fucked her…” Simon would have simply been Simon, his stupid, amoral and egocentric best friend and he had missed that. It’s probably a moment of pure stupidity but it’s a moment Mark’s not trying to resist so he lets himself get next to Simon and stares at his plump lips. He takes his mate’s cigarette away, looks into his eyes one more time as to saying “Punch me now or shut the fuck up” and kisses him. It’s not slow or tender. It’s needy and bruising and hard. It’s definitely not a declaration of undying love of any sort but it’s definitely a declaration of need. The punch Mark is expecting never comes. Simon’s lips are moving against his mirroring Mark’s impulse. There are hands gripping at each other and Mark can feel Simon’s need to anchor him in the moment, to feel he’s really there and not in some other country playing houses with some other cunt so he answers that need. Yes, he’s here. Yes, he’s with him. Yes, he’s not leaving again. 

That night is spent on Simon’s bed just necking. It reminds Mark of his first kiss. He had been thirteen and in love with Suzie Collins. Before being a nihilistic, Mark had been a romantic. He wanted perfection. He stole the prettiest red rosed he had seen in Leith and gave them to Suzie at recess. After many painful rejections, she had accepted to go out with him, probably influenced by the fact that her best friend, Lilly Clarkson, had been hopelessly devoted to Simon. Mark had no experience and was nervous as hell so he did the only thing he could think of, he went to Simon and asked for practice. It had made sense at the time. Despite being thirteen, Simon was already no novice and he could save Mark of a disastrous first kiss. In the end, Mark convinced him. It didn’t have to be weird, they were just two friends helping each other out, getting a bit of practice. It would have been clumsy and awkward but Simon guided him into it. He started by grasping Mark’s head with his hands, anchoring the other is important he said, then he closed the gap. He kept his mouth closed, letting Mark adjust to he feeling of his lips being touched by another pair of lips. His tongue darted out and licked Mark’s mouth which instantly opened itself. Simon kissed like he did anything else, with confidence and courage. The kiss lasted way more than it should have. Simon let Mark explore, ease into it, take his time. Afterwards they just looked at each other in silence for awhile then Mark asked, in a whisper, was it always like that? Simon had smiled and got up. He had a first date with Lily to attend. The next day he kissed Suzy Collins and, seeing the dreamy expression on her face, it had went well enough. He went on many more dates and kissed many more people. No, Mark had soon found out, it wasn’t always like that. Kissing Simon was something else. Of course it would be. It still was twenty years later. 

“Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.”   
― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are really welcome :)
> 
> Cheers!


	8. Merry fucking Christmas!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon didn't expect to get anything for Christmas. He was wrong.

“The more you leave out, the more you highlight what you leave in.”   
― Henry Green

The rising sun finds their limbs entangled the next morning. Simon’s head is resting on his flatmate’s chest, Mark’s fingers lingering on Simon’s hair. Their breathing is steady and follow a rhythmic pattern. It’s the best both of them have slept in years. They wake up slowly, basking into the warmth of the moment for as long as they can. Mark is the first to open his eyes, his fingers on Simon’s hair resuming their delicate work while his other hand caresses down his mate’s spine lightly. Simon sighs. It feels almost too good. It’s like time hasn’t gone by at all and he can still get that feeling of safety he had only ever gotten from Mark. The ginger had always been a blanket for him; he couldn’t recognize the feeling when he was younger but he did know, loss would do that to you. It was home; Mark fucking Renton felt like home. It would almost be lyrical if it wasn’t them. They end up having to move and go out into the cruel harsh world. They don’t talk about it. They do that kind of shit whenever they are slightly out of their minds. They were drunk, there’s nothing else to it. At least that’s what Simon likes to tell himself. Mark, on the other hand, doesn’t even question himself about it. He had never questioned his relationship with Simon; whether it was about the pull, the betrayals, the cuddles in the nights of despair or the sex in bathrooms, it had always just felt natural. It had always been the one and only thing Mark Renton had not turned into an existential question. So what if he had ditched the girl he was supposedly in love with to neck with his best friend? He had felt like it, it was as simple as that. 

That afternoon, at the pub, Mark has a vision. He’s observing Simon who’s serving drinks and attracting all of the attention. He had always been an attention whore, for as long as he could remember but, the exceptional thing about it was that it almost seemed effortless to him. Mark was not the only one drawn to Simon, people in general were, like a moth to the light. He was the man mothers warned their daughters against and were never listened to. We all have talents, Mark believes, and attracting people was Simon’s. They would turn the pub into a night club. It would certainly be expensive and require a license, maybe some work inside the local but it could be the one thing to repay the loan in the long run. They would be in their element. It doesn’t matter how much time changes, it doesn’t matter how much technology there’s around, in the end a city’s nights are always about the same thing: people trying to not be alone, people trying to forget, people trying to connect, people trying to feel alive so they don’t have to recognize that they already are and there’s nothing else to it than this. It’s about a music so loud that it condemns thought, and alcohol, and drugs and numbing yourself until you’re so miserable you don’t care anymore. They’ve done that for twenty years, they sure as hell can make a business out of it. Mark can picture Simon, the centre of it all. It can only work so when they get home that night he tells the blonde his idea and for the first time in months there’s a true smile on Simon’s face. It’s not a seductive one, or a condescending one. It doesn’t belong to any of the hundreds of masks Simon has perfected over the years. It’s a real smile and it’s fucking rare to be on the receiving end of that smile that Mark can only feel smug as shit, as if he had solved a difficult mathematical equation. They’d convince Spud when he comes back, they always did anyway. 

***

The next day Mark leaves home early and goes to Diane for advice. She must still care for him, he thinks, because she still doesn’t throw him out. He knows he’s a nuisance in her world where every minute is worth a lot of pounds but she still receives him and still helps him. 

-Thank ye, a don’t know why ye put up with me. 

-To be honest, it’s not totally out of generosity. 

Mark squints his eyes, curious. He hadn’t learned that much about Diane since he came back apart that glimpse of a life he had caught at her apartment. 

-Time for a coffee?

They end up in the posh coffee shop across the street and Mark has to roll his eyes. Six pounds for a cappuccino because of a fucking leaf made of foam on it? Come on, it was just fucking coffee. So pretentious, almost as much as Simon’s hair. He lets it slip and drinks it up quickly while Diane contemplates her cup, lost in thought. 

-Am a good listener, ye know?

She snorts and grins at him.

-My ass you are. You’re an egoistical jerk with too vivid of an imagination that blanks out as soon as he can. 

She knew him too well to be lied to.

-Well, a have a theory about that. 

Of course he had, too much time with Simon. 

-Enlighten me.

-A don’t really believe people want to be listened to. It’s the same as when someone hasn’t seen ye fur a long time and says “hey, how are you?”. It’s a rhetorical question, he doesn’t give a fuck about how ye’re. In fact, he’s praying fur ye not to tell him. 

-Hmm, so why I am here then?

-Because people have the need to vent sometimes. Ye need to vent to someone and ye can’t do it with yer family or with yer friends ‘cause they have expectations, they have a certain idea of what ye should think, feel and how ye should be. I don’t. I’m a failure. I won’t judge ye. I don’t expect anything of ye. Ye’re free to say whatever ye need to. 

Diane sighs and looks out of the window.

-It’s this time of the year. When I was a kid, before my parents became too busy to remember they had a daughter, they would take me shopping for a tree. We’d take a stroll through town, see the lights, enjoy the feeling of warmth in the middle of winter. 

-Seems nice. 

Mark wished he had some memory of the kind but he doesn’t. The one thing he remembers about Christmas is money. Being too short on money. Anxiety all over the house. Then the pain of the brother who didn’t make it. Absences are tough everyday but they are always tougher at Christmas. 

-It was. I used to believe in the Christmas’ spirit. I used to believe people tried hard to be better during that time of the year. I like my life, Mark. I’ve got a great job, I make a lot of money, I have a decent boyfriend many would envy and yet…

She trails off and stares out of the window again, probably lost in her childhood memories.

-I won a case yesterday. A man was suing a technological label, he accused them of stealing his idea and not giving him a penny.

-Ye won so that’s a good day in yer book, nah?

-The man was telling the truth the whole time. He has three children, no money and he was stolen by a corporation which could pay the mortgage of his house over and over again. And I played a big part in it. Merry fucking Christmas to me!

Mark sighs and takes her slim hand in his bigger one. 

-That doesn’t turn ye into a bad person. 

-Really?

-Was it a good thing to do? Not by moral standards. Does that turn ye into an awful human being? Nah, it doesn’t. Things are more complicated than that.

Diane takes back her hand and shakes her head.

-Is that what you told yourself when you stole your mate’s money?

Mark stares at her blankly. 

-I don’t want someone to tell me I’m good enough most of the time, Mark. I want someone who will let me take responsibility because I do awful things a lot of the time. I do great things too, true, but they don’t cancel each other. That kid I remember would spat in my face. I betrayed her. 

It’s Mark’s turn to snort because, for a big lawyer shark, she’s pretty naive. 

-We all do, Diane. That’s what growing up is about. 

She nods and drinks her coffee slowly, taking comfort in the truth of who they both are. 

-Anyway, I’ve decided you’re my good action this year. 

-Aye, a feel honored.

-You should, you’re pretty much a lost cause. By the way, are you going to play daddy to Simon’s kid on Christmas eve?

Mark would have spit his coffee if he had not finished it an eternity ago.

-Pardon?

-Didn’t you two get the memo yet? The kid’s mother is sending him to spend Christmas with Simon. 

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t comprehend the words just yet. 

***

-Are ye fucking kidding me? A haven’t seen him in forever and ye want to send him here for Christmas? 

Simon’s yelling can be heard from across the street and Mark opens the door and lets himself fall on the sofa, waiting for the call to be over.

-A should be happy? Oh my fucking god, and here a was, thinking ye were a good mother and not just a bitch. Don’t ye hang up on me! Don’t you dare!

Simon drops the phone on the table and looks at Mark, anger trying to disguise the sheer terror etching his features. 

-She said a should be happy! A few weeks ago a couldn’t watch my kid at school from afar without her throwing a tantrum and now she calls to say he’s coming fur Christmas. Who the hell does she think she is?

Mark shrugs. He’s been thinking on his way home. They’re kind of stuck.

-It’s not like ye can refuse. If ye do, ye won’t have another chance. 

Simon’s big hands pull at his hair and he lets himself fall near to Mark.

-What the hell are we going to do, Mark? A haven’t celebrated Christmas in years. A can’t even recall a fucking nice Christmas ever, not one. 

Mark thinks about barging off. He’s nothing to the kid after all, he can leave and spend Christmas’ at his dad. He can refuse the problem. Simon sees the thought passing through his eyes and points his finger at Mark’s chest.

-Don’t ye dare asshole. Ye’re not bailing off on me. Not again. Not ever again. 

No, he’s not, so that’s how Mark Renton ends up kind of coparenting Christmas for a boy he has never even met. 

***

They’re as lost as Paris Hilton at an intellectual gathering near Soho. They’re not Christmas’ people. They don’t celebrate Jesus or the venue of an old fat man dressed in red with worrisome and obvious pedophile tendencies. Their parties had nothing to do with any of that. Their parties are not suitable for an eight year old. 

Simon is so far gone that Mark has to do all the work. As usual. Decorations are first on the list so after a couple of hours arguing they end up at a commercial centre, shopping for Christmas decorations. Simon has not felt more miserable in his whole life, and that’s to say an awful lot. Mark wants a minimalist décor: a white little tree with blue lights around, some mistletoe, some figures and yellow lights around the house. Nothing too catchy. Simon, of course, wants to go all out. He wants the biggest tree, and as many colored lights as he can get. They end up meeting each other in the middle: they get the big tree, the colored lights and then Mark chooses the rest. When they go to the cashier to pay, the girl wished them a lovely Christmas for a lovely couple and Mark does something he didn’t even know he was still capable of, he blushes. He fucking blushes while shopping for Christmas’ decorations. Maybe he should have stayed in Amsterdam after all.

A couple of hours later they’re both sitting on the floor, staring at their work. They haven’t said a word yet. 

-It’s better than what a had when a was a kid. 

The tree is a plastic tree but it’s big and leafy enough. It’s ornate with colored blinking lights and golden, blue, white balls. There’s a bright star on the top and Mark is almost proud. There’s mistletoe at the threshold and there’s some sprigs of holly on the door to welcome you when you enter. There’s some more yellow and warm lights scattered around the room and candles with Christmas motives on the table. Mark is pretty proud of themselves. 

-He’s rich. I don’t think he’ll be impressed but, aye, not bad fur us. Wish we’d had something like that when we were kids. 

They know each other too well to need more words. Mark’s hands go to Simon’s shoulders and rub. Simon had always been tactile. He constantly needed to be anchored. He keeps on rubbing while he whispers.

-Who the fuck are we going to invite on Christmas Eve? 

***

Mark goes to his father’s the next day. A wave of nostalgia assaults him upon entering the living-room. There’s a tree in the corner, next to the TV, the same tree he had seen for 26 Christmas before he bailed out without looking back. It moves him. The fact that his father, a man who has been alone for some Christmases now, a man who has lost everyone he has ever cared about, still puts on the same Christmas decorations makes him want to cry. Then guilt strikes him. His father had not been the greatest of fathers, he had never understood Mark, but then who had? He was fucking hard to understand. He was not a normal kid. He was not a normal man. He was not normal, period. He imagines his old dad sitting alone at Christmas Eve, missing his mother, thinking about all the shit he was wrong about and it breaks his heart. And for a second he’s amazed, amazed at being able to feel guilt and emotion. He hasn’t stopped feeling things since he came back and it’s starting to freak the hell out of him. 

He turns around and looks at his father who’s standing there, waiting, a little smile on his face because his son finally visits him almost regularly. How is he going to explain this? Hey dad, want to come over and have dinner with Simon, his son he barely knows, myself and I don’t know who the heck else on Christmas Eve? Aye, who cared? They weren’t going to become normal at this point in their lives. 

-Hey dad, a was wondering… What are ye doing fur Christmas Eve? 

-Going to Simon’s, of course. 

Mark stays frozen on the spot for a while, too many thoughts running through his head at once and not one of them staying enough time to be developed. 

-Simon has already invited you? We just talked about it yesterday. 

Mark’s dad laughs and shakes his head, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. 

-He doesn’t need to. A’ve been having dinner on Christmas with him fur years. He always invites me to have dinner with his mother, sisters and their kids. Spud’s family has been there some years too. 

Mark doesn’t move or talk, he almost doesn’t breathe so his father goes to sit in the armchair and keeps going. 

-Yer mother was grateful, ye know? To be with him made her feel a bit closer to ye. Even when he lived in London, he would come by from time to time and make her smile. Then, when she passed away, it was a relief fur me to not have to spend Christmas alone here. Too many memories. I am glad this year you’ll share it with us, Mark. Yer mother would be ecstatic. 

Mark ends up sitting down with his father and spends some time with him. They have lunch and watch Liverpool’s last week’s game on replay. He goes through everything automatically, nothing really registering in his mind. Simon was the egoistical one. Simon was the egocentric one. Simon was the fucked up one. Then why the hell had he been taking care of Mark’s family for years? Why the hell had he cared while Mark was ignoring everyone in another country? Why had he done that after been betrayed? Why had he not said anything about it? What did all of that said about Simon Williamson? And, most importantly, what the hell did it say about him? 

He ends up sitting on Diane’s porch that night, not wanting to go home. It’s ridiculous, he knows, but he’s spent the day in his childhood’s home and he’s feeling childish. 

She doesn’t even comment on his presence, barely glancing at him, and opens the door. He follows her in. 

-Not yer lucky night? 

Diane snorts. 

-I just had a massive fight with my boyfriend. He wants us to spend Christmas in Lancaster with his family. We’ve been doing that for the last three fucking years. 

Mark snorts.

-Asshole. 

Diane opens up a champagne bottle and Mark has to smile at her poshness. They turn on the TV and drink their sorrows away on the couch. 

-So, are you going to tell me what you were doing on my porch?

-I went to ma da’s today, to invite him for Christmas. Did ye know Simon has been spending Christmas with ma family fur years? Visiting ma ma when she was alive? 

-Of course I do, Leith is not that big, Mark. 

Mark sighs and shakes his head. For a supposedly smart guy, he was pretty daft. 

-Does it bother you? I think it’s one of the rare nice things Simon has ever done. 

-It does. 

Diane hums and drinks. 

-He got nothing out of it. 

-A know. That’s what bothers me. Si never does stuff fur free. 

Diane leaves her drink on the table, hugs a pillow and looks at Mark. 

-Maybe he just missed you, have you thought about that? Maybe he missed you so he spent time with people who missed you too. 

Mark is listening but he can’t quit accept Diane’s words. 

-You feel guilty, don’t you? You feel guilty that he was there and you were not. 

They’re angry and lost and they end up having sex on the couch that night. They’re both pretty much drunk and thinking about other people so it’s not exactly spectacular but it’s comforting in its familiarity. It soothes them and makes them fall asleep at peace even though they both know it’s only temporary. They’ll wake up tomorrow and face their anger, and the persons they were really thinking about while trying not to think about them and the unfamiliarity of a world they feel too old to fight. 

***

It’s not until the evening when Mark goes home, thinking Simon will be at the pub but he’s not. He’s sitting on the couch watching a kitchen show on TV. 

-Hey.

-Hey ye, replies Simon without even turning around to look at Mark. 

Mark throws his stuff into his room and comes back into the living room. 

-A went to my da’s yesterday. A wanted to invite him over fur Christmas’ dinner but apparently it wasn’t needed. 

Simon shrugs, still not looking at Mark. 

-Ye visited my ma when she was alive. Ye’ve had Christmas dinners with ma family for years. 

Simon sighs and finally turns around to look at Mark. 

-They were lonely and they always treated me right, even though they believed a was the worst influence in the world, which a probably was. A thought they’d like a bit of attention. 

Mark nods, his mind drifting off to all those conversations with his dad about needing to go to Uni and leave Simon behind, the others too but specially Simon. Simon was harder to leave behind for Mark. 

-Why are ye mad?

-Am not mad.

Simon snorts and turns off the TV. 

-Come on Renton, a know ye. A can read yer fucking face. Why are ye mad? Is it such a bad thing that I visited yer folks twice a year? 

-Why didn’t ye tell me?

-Well Mark, it’s been twenty years, am sorry if a haven’t told ye everything that’s happened since ye left. What were you expecting, for Leith to freeze over and wait for ye? 

Marks rolls his eyes and stays focused on the wall opposite him.

-This is not just anything. It has everything to do with me. It’s ma fucking family, Simon.

-Yes, yes it is! A fucking family ye left the same way ye left me so excuse me fur caring fur once in ma fucking life!

-Fuck off!

Simon gets up from the couch and jabs his fingers at Mark’s chest.

-Why does it bother ye? Why the hell are ye angry? 

-Because ye cared. Ye fucking really cared. Ye cared more than a did. 

The words are shouted at Simon’s face with a strange energy. The blonde stills himself, looking at Mark with almost pity in his eyes. Mark bolts from the wall and almost runs to the door. 

-Leaving again? Ma regards to Diane, Mark!

Simon’s words echo in his mind while he walks towards the city. He makes it to the bridge near Simon’s house. He’s freezing. He’s left the house so suddenly that he has taken no coat, no scarf, nothing. He’s shaking when a coat gets thrown on his back.

-If ye’re trying to kill yerself I can think of better ways, ways that involve drugs and a fucking high before going away.

Simon’s tone is soothing and Mark doesn’t protest when he sits beside him, hugging him to his chest and rubbing every part of Mark’s he can reach in order to get his body temperature back up. They stay like that for a few minutes, not saying a word, just enjoying the comfort, taking it in. 

-Can we go back inside, now? Ad rather not catch pneumonia.

Simon helps Mark to get up and they make their way back to the house where Simon runs a warm bath for Mark before heading to prepare some chicken soup. Mark feels like he may drown, choking on emotions. 

 

“I've never minded it," he went on. "Being lost, that is. I had always thought one could not truly be lost if one knew one's own heart. But I fear I may be lost without knowing yours.” 

― Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter we'll be meeting Sean... Alias Sick Boy junior xD


	9. Merry Fucking Christmas (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas dinner is here!

“When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching… They are your family. ” 

Jim Butcher

 

It’s amazing how much shit you need to buy to host a Christmas dinner. It’s not only the decorations, it’s the food and the gifts and the fact that none of them knows how to do this kind of stuff right. They end up spending a whole afternoon at a shopping center, temple and destroyer of humanity, the place they loath and love the most in the world. It works exactly as a drug, says Simon, it makes you believe you need stuff you don’t and allows you to forget stuff you need but are not able to have. The cunt is right of course, he always is. 

They visit every toy store and become hopeless soon enough. Kids nowadays are expensive. Apparently, they are unable to value anything without a screen or an internet connection. Mark can get the appeal for teenagers, but what is an eight year old supposed to do with the last phone out in the market? What’s the point in being connected all the damn time? When they were young it was disconnection they desperately sought; they were escapists. But maybe so are the kids of today. Mark can’t help but think they’re raising a generation of zombies, millennial zombies connected to a virtual reality who simply choose to give up true reality. Just as they did with skag. He hopes it firebacks, he hopes they all become hackers and destroy the system they’re all addicted to against their better judgment. 

They’re only three hours into their shopping when they understand that the world has shifted and shopping centers are not the ultimate place anymore. Who wants a mall when you can have the whole world within a click? They end up going back home and buying a bunch of shit for Simon’s sisters and her kids, their parents and Sean. Things they don’t know how to pay for. Simon suggests shoplifting, the old good times he says, the times where he used to shoplift his Armani shirts instead of becoming in debt to buy them. Mark shuts him off, they don’t need to go to prison at the moment, Begbie is there after all, waiting for them. They also buy a football ball for Sean and a Liverpool’s kit because god knows what kind of football education that boy is receiving in London. They also decide to buy him a little something to give him the morning of Christmas, once the three of them are alone. The thought still hits Mark hard every time it comes, the three of them together, how the hell does he fit in that picture? It doesn’t matter though, Simon is not giving him any option to retreat. 

Shopping for food proves to be easier. Mark has never been a great cook, his wife used to do that work in Amsterdam and even then, they weren’t exactly culinary artists. Simon, on the other hand, reveals himself to be a wonderful cook when he puts his interest into it. It shouldn’t surprise Mark; for starters, it’s a good weapon to seduce lassies. Plus, Simon has always excelled at everything he’s really tried, the problem being he rarely tried and never for long. Such a waste of talent, thinks Mark as he tastes Simon’s test dishes for the dinner. The dinner is set to start with a variety of petitis fours, followed by oven-roasted salmon with herb roasted potatoes (Sean’s mother has told Simon the kid does not eat meat, the cunt), penne with shrimp and herbed cream sauce (Mark doesn’t make any joke on the name even if he wants to, god how much he wants to) and a spectacular millionaire’s ice cream bomb (Mark swears he’s having something very akin to an orgasm while tasting it). The days spent watching kitchen TV shows have finally paid off. 

***

Everything is ready by the morning of the 24th and all they have to do now is to pick up Sean at the airport. Simon would never admit it but Mark knows: he’s shitting himself. He can’t blame him. He’d shit himself too in his situation, he kind of is already. They arrive at the airport in advance and wait sitting on a bench in a tense silence. He has thought about having a kid, sure, even obsessively at some point, but never to have one with Simon. Kind of. He’s losing his mind, it’s the merry fucking Christmas effect. 

The kid is walking towards them with two bags too big for his slim frame -and why does anyone need two bags for a few days? Mark just needed one to pack his whole life back in Amsterdam- and he doesn’t look happy at all. It’s a different side to the leader Mark had contemplated in London’s playground; he’s looking around with the same confidence, but there’s also disdain now. He looks so much like Simon it’s not fair. It’s not just the features; it’s not just the clear color changing eyes, the long and straight nose, the plump lips or the blond hair, it’s his whole demeanor. It’s the elegance with which he moves, the indifference, the air of superiority no one would reproach him because of the confidence he exultes. He’s going to be a brat, a spectacular one. God knows what they’ll do when he hits puberty. Simon approaches him, his fingers twitching nervously. 

-Good morning, Sean. 

-Hello Simon. 

His name in his kid’s mouth feels like a blow to Simon but he knew shite was coming so he pretends it’s alright. Mark only looks around, helpless, a red fish in a shark’s tank. 

-Did ye have a good trip?

Sean sighs and rolls his eyes as if extremely exasperated because of other’s ignorance. 

-Let’s be clear here. I’ve seen you like ten times in my life. You put the sperm, ok, wonderful. Thanks for life and shit, but that’s it. I’m here because mom forced me. Let’s just not bother each other and we’ll be fine. 

Then he puts on his EarPods, looks at his phone’s screen and starts walking towards the exit. Simon exhales and look at Mark.

-The kid is a fucking cunt.

Mark snorts.

-What were ye expecting? He’s yer kid, yers with money. Af cours he’d be a fucking cunt. 

The next few hours proved to be worse. The kid limited himself to sit on the sofa and play with his phone, effectively avoiding any kind of interaction. Who needs skag when you have an iPhone? Who needs to be an eight year old when you have an iPhone? That kid can’t be eight, thinks Mark, it’s fucking impossible. As time goes by, they soon learn that Sean being silent is a good thing. Mark is sitting next to him, working on the club’s incomes on his laptop, when the kid decides to talk. 

-Aren’t you going to your own house? 

Simon, who’s cooking behind the counter, looks up, suddenly interested by the exchange. 

-A live here. 

-Are you gay or just pathetic enough to have a flatmate at your age? 

Simon can’t help but smirk, the bastard, and Mark limits himself to roll his eyes and to put Sean’s AirPods back in his ears.The cunt is better silent. Sean keeps furiously typing on his phone and Mark can’t help but take a look. It’s just too easy. He can catch a bit of his whatssap conversation with his mother.  
“I hate it here.”

Thanks Sean, we love to have you too. Bastard.

“You know you can’t come. Geoffrey wanted us to be alone.”

“It’s not fair that you’re ditching me for Christmas to go on a cruise with your boyfriend. It’s Christmas!”

“Don’t be dramatic. See you in a few days.”

Mark can feel it’s not the first time and for once he feels some simpathy for the kid. Maybe he doesn’t have it that perfect after all. 

***

The first to arrive is Mark’s father; he knocks on their door at 5 pm sharp. Mark, who’s now clad in dark jeans, a black jacket and a white shirt, lets him in awkwardly. He can’t remember the last Christmas he spent with his dad and he has still trouble wrapping his head around all the Christmases his father has spent with Simon in this same flat. Still, he’s happy to be around for this one. He hasn’t felt like part of something in a long time. His dad is happy as well if the hug he gives him is any indication. Simon’s sisters arrive later with their respective boyfriends -Mark doesn’t even want to know- and their mother. 

-Mark, caro mio, how long it’s been! 

Mark finds himself in Simon’s mother’s arms in a few seconds. She’s whispering Italian terms of endearment in his ears and holding him tight. She had always liked Mark, the poor woman had thought he was a good influence for Simon, as if anyone could ever influence Simon. Mark feels ashamed, once again, for his departure. Simon’s mother had always treated him with love and tenderness; she was a fragile woman, not strong enough to confront her husband, but a good one at heart. Mark wondered briefly if she had ever known about him taking off with the money. Simon may had never talked about it, too ashamed to have been played like that, or she may have forgiven him. Either way, it was fine with him. Apart from Begbie, everyone had ended up accepting him easily. Maybe Diane was right after all, maybe they had missed him. 

Once that everyone is settled down and the food is ready, Simon retires to his room in order to change. He comes back clad in a velour suit. He pulls it off brilliantly, the bastard. Who the hell can pull off a velour suit at a Christmas’ dinner. Simon fucking Williamson, of course. It has no effect on Mark, as least that what he repeats in his mind once and again. The dinner is far from being a success. The food is great and the setting nice enough, the invited ones not so much. Sean plays with his phone until Simon snatches it away, then proceeds to direct deadly stares at his father and to bite off any comment from anyone. Simon’s sisters are so loud Mark’s head is going to explode. They’re an Italian family after all and they talk a lot and loudly, exactly the opposite of Mark and his father who simply stare in silence with the occasional laugh. Simon skillfully avoids every subject of conflict but this is still a Christmas’ dinner so of course they end up talking about the Brexit and Theresa May’s failure at the election, and about how Corbyn is or is not a communist and it ends up in a dialectic war. Mark doesn’t know who’s winning but, fuck, he’d gladly take a hit at the moment.   
***

There is a knock on the door and the tension shifts its direction. At first they all ignore it, there are enough voices in the air to overcome any kind of sound but the knocker persists in his effort and the words start to become murmurations. It’s a kind of silent submission, slow and almost unconscious. Every sound that is not the knock in the door ends up dying down. Toc, toc, toc… There’s a certain rhythm to it, a certain pattern that stirs an unsettling sensation in the pit of Mark’s stomach. 

-Open up bastard! A want to talk to ma wife! 

Simon’s father’s voice has been roughened up by a bunch of years of smoking, drinking and god knows what else but Mark recognizes it all the same. He remembers being a kid and being scared of that same voice, it still sounds intimidating to the forty something years old he is now. 

-Com’n ye bastard! A come in peace! 

The voice insists and every stare is now fixed on the door but for Mark’s which is fixed exclusively on Simon. The blonde’s face is closed off, stilled in a mask of cold indifference that has been practiced through the years and yet, if you look close enough, you can see the hate crawling from it. Simon’s mother starts to get up but his son catches her wrist between his long, slender fingers. 

-Don’t ye dare, ma. 

The words are formally a threat but they don’t carry the heat within them, they are voiced like a silent supplication. Son and mother have a silent dialogue with their eyes while the rest of them watch, not daring to destroy the fragility of the moment. They have had the same dialogue countless times over the years and it always ends the same way. 

-Please, ma, please. 

Simon never pleads. It goes against his character. It goes against his principles. It goes against everything he’s ever believed in but he’s desperate. He’s desperate to have same argument over and over again and to eternally lose. Mark wishes he could intervene, he wishes he could make Simon’s mother choose his son over her husband for once, but he can’t. It’s an impossibility, the woman’s will was broke down long ago, long before they had enough consciousness to save it. She looks at Simon with sorrow in her eyes before detaching her wrist and walking towards the door. She lets him in. She always lets him in. 

He stumbles in like the drunkard he is, gracelessly and with no regards to others. Not every addict was the same, not every addict carried the same amount of violence within them. Mark and his mates were no better than Simon’s dad, sure, but their rage had been directed towards themselves rather than towards others which was not the case of the man. 

-Are ye ok? Let’s go home, hon. 

Simon’s mother’s voice drips like honey, it’s the voice you use when you don’t want to wake a shark up. It’s useless, the shark is already up and looking for blood. 

-Go home? Why? My fucker of a son organizes a Christmas’ dinner and am not even invited? 

Simon is breathing deeply, trying to calm himself, and Mark is starting to think they’re going to end up celebrating Christmas in prison. Maybe he should give Diane a call. 

-And what about ma daughters? Ungrateful bitches! 

Simon’s sisters don’t say a word, neither do their boyfriends. Mark can feel Sean flinching next to him. The kid may talk and behave himself like a teenager but he’s an eight year old baby used to the pretty side of the world. Violence is a playstation game to him and Mark suddenly wishes it could stay that way. He offers a silent invitation approaching his chair and Sean instantly takes it, closing the distance and putting his tiny arm around Mark’s waist. Mark doesn’t say anything but he squeezes back. 

-Don’t talk to yer kids that way, Martin! 

Mark’s father is the only one to stand up to the Williamson patriarch. Once schoolboys companions, the two men had grown up hating each other. Mark’s father had always believed Martin Williamson to be a sleazy douchebag. Mark still remembers his first day of school. He had ran home excited because he had already made a friend, his best friend in the whole word. A week later, when he had came home with a little blonde attached to his hip, his father had whispered, disgusted, “hmmm, the Williamson boy.” He had hoped the two boys would drift apart, as most kids do, but they had remained best friends through tick and thin. Mark smiles inwardly at the memory, best friend in the whole word indeed. 

-Ye, always believing yerself to be better. It’s not like yer son invites ye to his Christmas’ parties. Must be nice, wife dead and yer kid doesn’t even call ye. 

-Hey! Shut the fuck up!

Simon’s father turns towards the direction of the voice to find Mark Renton staring at him. Pretentious cunt, he had never liked him.

-Mark Renton in person! So it is true, ye came back. Such a shame Frank didn’t cut yer throat. 

Sean’s grip on Mark’s waist gets tighter, almost painful. 

-Enough!

Simon’s eyes are as hard and cutting as ice as he voices the words. 

-Defending yer little friend? The cunt robs you, disappears and ye let him in yer house! What a shite coward ye are Simon. Not the son I raised!

-Indeed, since you haven’t raised a soul in yer worthless life. As fer whom I invite or not to ma house, non of yer fucking business. 

Simon’s father approaches Sean dangerously and Mark tightens his hold on the kid, as a lioness protects her little ones. 

-Who are ye? Oh, Simon’s wee? 

He drops his hand on Sean’s hair and the kids instantly recoils in fear.

-Ye know last time he had a kid she died while he was too drugged to notice? Careful ye don’t end up the same way. 

-Get your fucking filthy hands off ma son. I swear to god, do it now or you’re the one who’s going to end up dead tonight. 

Simon’s dad doesn’t move his hand and Sean can’t react. He just looks at his dad, terrified. Simon gets up and ends up pushing the bastard towards the door, punching him in the face.

-Ye don’t touch ma son, understand? Ye may fuck up with the rest of us but you don’t touch ma son. Get the fuck out or am calling the police. 

Mark remembers the first time Simon had stood up to his father. He had been sixteen, the muscles of a man slowly appearing under the shape of a kid. His father had been drunk, as per usual, and Simon had lacked the skag. It had been a Tuesday night. Simon had taken the insults silently, with only a sneer, as per usual, but once his father had pushed his mother to the floor, he had reacted violently for the first time. Stones thrown at his window had woken up Mark. Simon’s body had been full of bruises, his lips cut and his eyes swollen but he had never went back into submission. He would leave his ma’s when his da’s was there, flat hopping around, avoiding a confrontation where everyone was condemned to lose.

Simon and his dad stare hardly at each other for a moment but the old man never answers the punch with one of his own. He simply opens the door and grabs his wife’s wrist. 

-Come on, no need to be where we’re not wanted. 

-Ye don’t have to. Ye can stay. 

Mark can hear every word Simon is not saying: you can start over, you don’t have to do what he says, I can protect you know. I couldn’t back then, but I can know. He also knows it’s useless, as does Simon. She looks at him apologetically, mouths the word “sorry”, caresses his cheek with tenderness and follows her husband into the night. The door closes and Mark feels Sean’s body relaxing, at last. Simon walks back to his seat stopping in order to whisper into Sean’s ears words no one else can hear and the dinner awkwardly resumes. 

***

They forget about politics when football comes up. The boyfriend -toy boy, whatever it is- of Simon’s older sister is from Manchester, the cunt. He swears Man U is the best team in England and Mark is ready to throw the fucker out. He will walk alone just fine. They’re in the middle of a heated argument over how much Man U got screwed over with Pogba and about how great Klopp is when there’s another knock on the door and everyone gets terrified. Simon gets up this time and opens, freezing at the person he finds on the other side of the door. It’s ten pm and it’s raining because this is England in December. It’s fucking cold and Diane is standing there, freezing in a small black dress. 

-Hi, my boyfriend is an asshole. I broke up with him when he proposed to me. In front of the whole family, after the chicken roast. I’m too far from home and far too depressed to go home and I thought “Oh, well, where can I go? Let’s try Mark and Simon. They may be as deep in shit as I am.” 

Sean is looking at the door the same way Mark imagines Alice looked at everything once she fell down the hole. The rest of the table doesn’t seem to mind. Simon simply invites her to enter with a movement of his arm.

´-Thank you. 

Diane takes the place left vacant by Simon’s mother and Mark makes a mental note of talking to her later. By the end of the night, the impromptu visit is almost forgotten and they are on the verge of enjoying themselves. They end up handing their gifts to the kids who open them with a various degree of excitement, basically proportional to how far they are into their teenage years. Sean doesn’t seem very impressed with their football ball but it’s late and they’re too tired to care. The kids are free to play while the adults go into the drinking post dessert part of the dinner but Sean doesn’t seem interested and Mark sees him going outside. He glances at Simon before excusing himself and following the wee. 

***

Sean is sitting on the doorstep, eyes lost into the horizon and the football ball by his feet. Mark sits besides him, wondering what the heck to tell an eight year old who’s been tossed into the dysfunctional life of a father he barely knows for Christmas. When he was in Amsterdam and had a semblance of a life, when he was still hoping to have the 2.5 kids society demands, he used to imagine the conversations he’d have with his children. He would rehearsed in his mind the important ones: their first day of school, their first friendship, their first fallout, their first love, their first breakup, choosing a path… He’d have long dialogues in his head with entirely imaginary beings, beings that would never exist, and he would laugh at the absurdity of it al. Now, confronted to a real kid -flesh and blood-, he didn’t feel that confident. He was damn better in his imagination but, damn, everything about Mark Renton was always better in his imagination. He decides to use the only technique that ever worked on Simon: the truth; the harshest, the better. 

 

-Yer a brat, ye know that? 

Sean looks at him, eyebrow slightly rosed, and he’s the living picture of Simon. This conversation, Mark knows, is not going to be an easy one. 

-And you’re idiots.

-Aye, we are but we’re the only idiots who want ye fur Christmas. I heard ye talking to yer mother on that iPhone no eight year old in the world needs. 

Sean looks away, shame coloring his features. He’s mad at the world, just as Simon has always been. 

-New boyfriend in town?

Sean shrugs. 

-When it’s not a boyfriend, it’s a party or work or any other shit. 

Mark nods. He feels sorry for the kid. So much technology, so much money and as lonely as any of the, even more. 

-Has it always been like this? 

-She loves me. she’s not a bad mum. It’s just that she gets bored. 

A world where the kids are more mature than the adults, thinks Mark, is a fucked up one. 

-Simon’s dad was scary. 

-Aye, scary as shite, always has been. 

-He doesn’t like him very much, does he? 

Mark has to smile at that one. 

-Let’s put it this way: yer father would have been very happy if his dad had disappeared when he was a wee. 

-That sucks. 

-It sure does. 

They stare into the horizon together, a comfortable silence growing between them. 

-I know yer father is not perfect and ye probably deserve better but he’s yer dad and he wants to be there and I know that doesn’t mean much to you now but you’ll grow up and discover how amazing it is that someone wants to be there. And yeah, the dinner was bad enough but he tried. He tried fur ye so am not saying ye should adore him right away but mibby ye can stop insulting him for a while. 

Sean pouts and Marks recognizes the expression. A Williamson never admits a Renton to be right, it’s just human nature. The kid picks up the ball between his hands. 

-What am I supposed to do with that?

-Yer supposed to play with it. 

-I have loads of things to play with.

-I ken, but this is special. To play with this ye need people, real people, not people behind a screen somewhere in the world. And ye need space, real space, and to run. We can try tomorrow if ye want. Sean shrugs but doesn’t decline the invitation and Mark slightly smiles.

***

At the same time, inside the living room of their flat, Simon is staring at Diane. Mark’s father is watching the rerun of a football game on TV, preparing for Boxing day he says, while Simon’s sisters enjoy their time free of kids with their boyfriends.

-Stop looking at me that way. 

-Sorry, how do you look at someone who dumped her boyfriend when he was proposing to his girlfriend during a Christmas’ dinner in front of his family? 

-Asshole.

-Yeah, sure, am the asshole here.

Diane sighs and drinks all of her champagne. 

-We always go to his family’s at Christmas. We always go to Spain during summer. We always spend New Years’Eve with his friends. He’s a selfish cunt and the moment he proposed I knew, I really knew, he wasn’t what I wanted. 

-All right.

-All right, that’s it?

Simon sighs and rolls his eyes.

-Ye had a relationship and discovered ye didn’t want it anymore. Ye dumped him, where’s the fucking problem? 

-I’m questioning my whole life!

-So? A don’t remember ye being such a brat, Diane. When we met ye, ye knew what ye wanted and went for it. Ye even blackmailed Rents to keep fucking him, for God’s sake. 

-What’s your point?

-My point is yer a highly educated, pretty, smart, mostly rich and young enough female. If you don’t like your life, change it. Where’s the fucking problem? 

-Am the problem.

-Then do fucking something about it. 

***

Mark sends the last of their guests on their way and lets out the longest sigh he remembers. He turns around and signals Sean to go to bed. The kid hugs Simon and whispers words into his ear no one else can hear. Not so bad for two junkies, thinks Mark, not so bad. 

He’s physically, mentally and emotionally so exhausted he doesn’t know whether to cry or to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He can barely stand and he thanks God there is another 365 days until the next Christmas. 

Simon is sitting next to the window, puffing on a cigarette, an expression of being far, far away on his face. It's been a hard night on him and Mark can’t help but feel a pang of pain for his mate. He approaches him silently, sits next to him and takes a drag of his cigarette without asking. They sit in silence for a few minutes and it’s one of the most comfortable things there is, it’s always has been between them.

-It couldn’t had been worst, could it?

Mark shrugs and takes another drag before passing the cigarette back to Simon. 

-It can always be worst. Begbie could have storm in with a gun or something. 

Simon can't help but smile at that and Mark feels like he has won the jackpot. He has always felt such pride whenever he’s been able to make Simon laugh.

-That kid is so much like ye Si, it’s almost scary. 

-Then poor kid, he’s in for a shite of a ride.

Mark wants to tell him no. He wants to tell him that, with the right background and the right chances, being like Simon can be the hell of a chance. Sean can be pretty, smart and charming without becoming a manipulative bitch unable to see people but as tools. Simon could have been too. Mark wants to say all of that and much more but he doesn’t because he doesn’t really know how to say things, specially to Simon, specially lately. 

-He’ll come around. He just needs time.

Simon nods but he’s so far gone Mark knows he’s not listening. It’s not like he had really said anything anyway, just empty words anyone would utter in such circumstances. 

-I knew it wouldn’t work for ye, ye ken?

-What?

-Amsterdam, I knew it wouldn’t work. 

Mark is taken aback by the sudden change in conversation but everyone has got his piece of truth tonight and he guesses he shouldn’t be the exception.

-It did for awhile.

Simon chuckles and shakes his head. A wise man nagging the ignorant.

-It always does with ye, but never fur long. 

Simon throws the cigarette out of the window and turns to fully look into Mark’s wondering eyes. 

-Do you really think a don’t know you? Do you really think am like the rest of them? 

Mark knows he’s not. He’s always known. He has never been able to properly classify Simon in his life but one thing he has always known for sure, he doesn’t belong with others. He has his own category, probably the only one that has remained nameless.

-A've known since we were wees, Rents. Ye were never like the rest of lads, that’s probably what got me drawn to ye. Ye have always wanted more, needed more, expected more. An unquenchable thirst for the absolute has driven every minute of your existence. 

Simon pauses for a moment and Mark recognizes the look he is giving him. It’s one of defiance. It’s one that says: ”Deny me if you dare.” Mark doesn’t dare, he’s too paralyzed to. 

-Yer family worked fur a little while then got too simplistic. School worked fur a little while then ye realized important stuff was never discussed there anyway. Friendship worked fur a longer while but it wasn’t enough yet. It’s never enough with ye. Love and sex worked for a little while too but once the novelty disappeared… Such a deception. The list goes on forever. 

Mark is looking at Simon intently, drinking in every word he says, the truth of his existence exposed in syllables he has never been able to find. 

-A tried, ye know? A tried to give ye more and more but a soon realized it was useless because it would never be enough and I thought ye would find out soon enough anyway. Yer a smart lad, always has been, ye should have figured it out by now. 

Mark’s voice is shaking, even though he would never recognize it aloud. 

-Figure out what exactly?

Simon’s right hand comes to rest on Mark’s cheek and caresses it softly, preparing it for the blow he’s about to give it.

-There’s no more, Mark. This is it. This is life. This is everything ye get. People trying to live and failing most of the time, and that’s it. There’s no absolute. There’s no such a thing as a pure emotion. Ye can go to Amsterdam, Canada or fucking Australia. Ye can marry as many strangers as you want. Ye can change jobs every time ye need but it won’t change the fact that this is what ye get. 

Simon’s hand is moving in circles on Mark’s cheek, softening the blow.

-That’s why ye became an addict in the first place anyway, isn’t it? Ye started to use looking for the absolute then ye kept on using to forget the fact that there was no such thing. 

Mark grabs Simon’s hand as you grab a lifeboat on a sinking ship. He doesn’t want to confront it. He’s always known the day would come but he’s not ready. He can't go through the gigantic void that is Nihilism, not yet, not then but Simon is not taking prisoners. Not tonight.

-If there was, a would have given it to ye. A would still give it to ye but there’s not. A just wished it was enough Mark, a really do. 

Simon takes something out of his pocket, a little package, and throws it into Mark’s hands. 

-Happy Christmas, Rentboy. 

Simon’s hand wipes a tear away before retreating. He gets up slowly, takes Mark’s head between his hands and barely touches his forehead with his lips, as softly as death would. He walks away leaving Mark in the abyss whose edge he’s been walking on all his life. He’s finally been pushed in now. He will either come back on the other side or he won’t come back at all. He opens up Simon’s package, shredding the black paper and the golden ribbon, to find a printed quote elegantly framed: 

“Disappear Here.  
The syringe fills with blood.  
You're a beautiful boy and that's all that matters.  
Wonder if he's for sale.  
People are afraid to merge. To merge.” 

Mark recognizes the reference right away, an Ellis quote from Less Than Zero. Fucking cunt. He ends up walking into Simon’s room that night and gets into his bed, desperately clutching at some form of anchor. The blonde hugs him as tight as he can and he caresses him to sleep with patience and something, Mark muses as he’s spiraling down into the abyss, that resembles love. 

 

“I can't go on, I'll go on.” 

Samuel Beckett, I Can't Go On, I'll Go On: A Samuel Beckett Reader.


	10. Trainspotting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know you want Mark and Simon... but we must not forget about Begbie. It could be dangerous.

“I would rather die of passion than of boredom.”   
Émile Zola, The Ladies' Paradise

 

They’re forcing them to sit through another shitty reunion about reinsertion. They have brought in this blonde kid, probably fresh out of some posh college mommy and daddy have paid for and he’s shitting himself. Begbie can see it in his eyes, it was kids like this one Simon used to scam all the time when they were younger. Even though he’s terrified, the kid is talking with hope in his eyes. There are courses, he says, there is stuff you can do here that will make it easier for you out there… My fucking ass, once a convict always a convict. Begbie wants to punch the kid with every word that flies out of his mouth but, deep down, he knows it’s not the kid’s fault. He had been born on the bright side of things, where your mother tucks you in at night while your father reads you a fairytale about knights getting to be heroes and marrying princesses. He had been born on the side where you get birthdays with beautiful cakes and decorated gardens. He had been born on the side where your life begins at 18 instead of ending. He had been born on the side where you’re fed lies such as “Anyone can become whoever they want to” or “Anything is possible.” MY. FUCKING. ASS. Try to be born in shitty Leith with a shitty family where you’re on your own once you’re old enough to walk and do not grow up to become an emotional cripple. Try to be born in shitty Leith where teachers at school just try to go by, without a book to be seen at home and grow up to be an educated ass. Try to be born in shitty Leith and grow up surrounded by scams, skag and police without becoming a parasite. Do that and then you can come tell Begbie you can become anything you want in life. And it’s not just the lack of opportunities, it’s the context that ends up becoming a part of you and you have to carry on your shoulders. Look at Mark, for example, a fucking smart kid; smart enough to get to uni without a book at home or someone to help him do his homework at night and yet he ended up quitting. He had the ability and he had the opportunity but he still quitted because in the end you’re also what surrounds you and who brings you up. So this blonde kid who’s talking can take all of his shitty capitalist American dream speech and fuck his ass with it. Begbie can picture the nice little cottage and the older brother, the cute labrador playing in the garden, the attentive mother and the proud father… He can’t understand. He never will. He doesn’t know shit about shit. You can do as many courses as you want in here, you can become a lawyer if you want but, at the end of the day, you’re still gonna be yourself and your context will swallow you alive. 

Putting people into prison is trying to kill them through boredom. That’s it. There’s no more. All that bullshit they tell you about wanting to reinsert people into civil society? Bullshit. Nothing else. Killing time in a claustrophobic cell, everyday, that’s what it is. You have to focus on something to not become crazy, or at least crazier. Something to put your mind into. Something to kill the boredom before it kills you. Some guys try to invest the times in things society would label as productives while others invest it in the people they love. Begbie has never been productive, and nobody loves him. The first time in, apart from his vengeance from Mark, it was Franco Junior who had kept him going but now that he knew the kid was better off without him… He was better off without him, there was nothing to add really. The truth is that the majority of people don’t think about love or reinsertion, they think about revenge. They breathe revenge. They have revenge for breakfast, and lunch and dinner. They sleep and smell and taste revenge so many times that, by the end of the first month, it’s the only thing on their minds. That’s what Begbie’s life has always been anyway, going from one revenge to another. This time it would be sweeter though. This time he would kill to birds with a single stone. He didn’t mind ending up back here as long as he knew Mark Renton would be as fucked up as he was. Life is simple like that really, if you can’t be put out of your misery, you may as well share it with someone else. But he can’t explain all of that to the prison’s psy, can he? It wouldn’t make him look like the sane person he must appear if he wants to get out at some point. At least he hasn’t been accused of attempting murder, of course his so called friends would want to stay as clear as possible from the police. Idiots.

-What happened while you were out Mr Begbie? How does one end up inside a car’s trunk back to the police station he ran away from?

Begbie shrugs. Fucking shrinks. 

-I don’t remember. Traumatic memory loss, I believe it to be called. 

For God’s sake, you’ve got so much time to kill inside those walls that even Begbie in person has to read from time to time. 

The psychologist shrugs back, the bastard.

-Could be. We do know you went to see your wife and your son, didn’t you?

-Yes, I do remember about that.

-Did it turn out like you expected?

-What the fuck should I have expected?

-When one is locked up, time tends to freeze. You find yourself cut off from your social circle, your professional and familial project, etc while the people you left outside keep going with their lives. The reunion can come as a shock. It happens often, specially when convicts leave small children outside and found them all grown up. 

Fuck him. Fuck the shrink and all of the shrinks in this world. 

-Franco Junior didn’t turn out as I expected him to, sure, but that’s not a bad thing. 

And that’s what really burns Begbie from the inside out. It’s not that his son is not following into his footsteps, but knowing that his footsteps are absolute shit. 

-Did you meet other people from your past, old friends maybe?

Oh, the irony. Old friends? Certainly not. On some level, Mark, Spud and Simon were friends. On some twisted, dark and desperate level, they genuinely cared about each other. Begbie, on the other hand, was only the man they are well afraid of. So no, not old friends waiting for him out. 

-Acquaintances you may say. 

-Had those acquaintances changed?

Not at all. They were the same shitty persons they used to be. Fucking bastards. 

-There are not worth taking about. 

There are not worth talking about, but they are wort being thought about every second of every single day. Fuck his life. The shrink keeps writing down stuff but not saying anything and Begbie has to control that violence that inhabits his very soul. 

-Here it says you’ve got some behavioral problems, Mr. Begbie. Anger issues. 

Begbie snorts. He does not have anger issues, it was just that the rest of the world had become so fucking soft it wasn’t even funny anymore. 

-I get mad when someone deserves it, like anyone else does. 

-No torrent of violence sweeping through you? 

Begbie knows what the shrink wants to hear. He wants him to talk about his childhood and his bufftie drunk father who abandoned him. He wants him to talk about his teenage years and those weird times where his cock would shift watching his mates get off. He wants him to talk about his sick obsession about Mark Renton, an obsession he would certainly interpret as misplaced sexual desire. He wants him to talk about the rage that has directed every single day of his life without ever being able to control it. He wants him to talk about how he’s still seeking revenge and will never stop. But he won’t because all of that is fucking bullshit. Begbie is not some traumatized closeted bufftie but a man betrayed by everyone he had ever given a fuck about. His father left. Mark left. Simon betrayed him. Spud chose them over him. His own son didn’t want to be like him. He has a right to be angry at the world. He has a right to seek revenge and he will. It’s as simple as that. Fuck or be fucked. No pun intended. 

The session keeps going on an unnecessary amount of time and it’s totally useless. He doesn’t really talk and neither does the shrink. A beautiful metaphor of the prison: USELESS. He finally gets to his cell and scares off his cellmate. Another fucking kid. No one with his age in prison or what? There’s an enveloppe sitting on his bed and Begbie rushes to open it. It’s not common for him to receive shit. He’s not prepared for what he finds inside. He wouldn’t have been prepared for it in a million years. It’s a book. A goddamn book with a skull on it and Spud’s real name. Daniel Murphy, published author of a thing called Trainspotting. It must be a joke. He opens the book with shaking hands. 

“To ma pals.”

Begbie’s hear hammers inside his chest as he reads it. He cannot stop. It’s more addictive than skag. It’s their lives. It’s shitty Leith. It’s Spud, it's Mark, it's Simon and it’s him. It’s their youth. He devours it as much as he wants to immediately vomit it. He has read every single page by the end of it, his mind stuck on some parts. 

“Mark’s left wi’ the money. Begbie thinks he’s Mark’s best pal. He’s not. Everyone ken it’s Simon. It’s always going to be Simon. He must be the most fucked up right now, I ken. I would.”

Bastards. Bastards. BASTARDS. BASTARDS. BASTAAAARDS. 

The book starts with Mark and Simon taking their first hit and it ends with Mark and Simon. Of course it fucking would. Of course he would appear as the crazy and violent asshole no one cares for. OF FUCKING COURSE. As rage pumps through his veins, he feels more sure than ever. He has to take out Simon. FAST. He never liked him anyway. 

“According to Madam Pomfrey, thoughts could leave deeper scars than almost anything else.” 

J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned. The chapter about Mark and Simon is coming fast! And it's an important one.


End file.
